The Woad in the Woods
by Frizelle
Summary: While Kyla, a Pict, is hunting in the woods she comes head to head with what she considers an unusual looking 'Roman', Tristan has a decision to make. More to follow, Rated M just in case it heads that way, who knows!
1. Chapter 1

****My first attempt at a fanfic, based on Mads Mikkelsen's portrayal of Tristan in the movie King Arthur.

I don't own any of the characters from the movie, just going to borrow them for a bit. I have the second chapter nearly completed but not quite sure how far it'll continue from there. I'll keep writing as long as these characters keep wrestling around my noggin. Hope you enjoy, would love some feedback.

**The Woad in the Woods**

Kyla picked her way through the lush forest, making headway by following game trails that occurred naturally with the movements of the local quadrupeds. She would have been delighted to have taken down a small deer on this outing but thought that, realistically, she had ranged far from where she had instructed Calum to wait for her, and the task of hauling it back there or gutting it where she had slain it would have either been too much effort or too time consuming.

She smirked to herself, thinking of their impending reunion. Calum was as inpatient as the next seven year old boy but when his inexperienced hunting skills had cost them two pheasant she had demanded he stay put while she sought out dinner for them both. She knew she had hurt his pride, but also knew that his bruised ego would quickly heal. The afternoon had been slipping by and she could not afford to indulge his eagerness today. She hoped the two fat rabbits swinging from her hip would partially make up for any insult caused. Perhaps, she thought, she could keep an eye out for the leafy green plant that Calum liked his food to be cooked with as a consolatory offering. Though not related by blood, they were as close as kin, sharing the common bond of losing both their parents, his to a Roman attack a few years back, hers through ill health when she was much younger. Their fifteen year age gap never was an issue.

Kyla paused momentarily to stretch her tired shoulder muscles and release her hair from the strip of leather that held it away from her face. Nothing annoyed her so much as a stray hair tickling her skin when she was concentrating on the hunt. She shook out her dark mane, easing the tension caused by the tight binding, which she now fastened around her wrist for safe keeping. Exposing the nape of her neck had been refreshing earlier in the unusually balmy day but there was a bite in the air now that foretold the coming night. She made to continue forward but almost immediately froze as the quiet whinny of a horse carried on the air.

Kyla quickly dropped down to a crouch keeping her body low to the ground and without much thought had loosed her hunting dagger from it's sheath. Her heart rate accelerated as she ascertained the direction she'd heard the animal calling from with dismay. It had come from ahead of her, placing it and it's rider between her and Calum.

'No, no, no, no, no' she thought frantically,' what are Romans doing out here?'

Her people lived in a small clearing right in the heart of the woodlands far from the monstrous Wall and not one she knew claimed ownership of such a creature. No, it must be a Roman dog come sniffing too far into the woods.

'Dog, or _dogs_?' the unwanted thought crossed her mind. She adjusted her trajectory to swing around her previous path and moved as quickly as she dared and as quietly as the forest would allow. She prayed to the Gods the same trees would protect Calum until she reached him.

'He's an attentive boy; his wits are sharp; he'll hear them before they hear him; he'll seek cover' she reassured herself frantically as she fought not to quickened her pace at the risk of being heard. A gentle pawing at the ground instantly informed her of the position of the restless beast. She had managed to situate herself adjacent to her foe. She paused momentarily with a dilemma, continue on to Calum or intercept the Roman while she had the element of surprise?

Though still far away from her village, dare she risk letting him get any further? She was an accomplished fighter and could boast speed, stealth and agility as her best qualities. Her mother used to joke as a child that she must be part wildcat. Pitting your skills against your mentors and fellow students was one thing but Kyla lacked a taste of true battle. Acting on impulse she began slowly to move closer to where she had detected the presence of the horse. She strained her senses and tried to control her breathing. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her dagger tighter. The flora was harder to navigate away from the trails that criss-crossed it elsewhere and Kyla found it slow going, but eventually caught a glimpse of the animal through the foliage.

A single large, dappled grey stood passively to one side of the trail, it's head to the ground as it tore up chunks of grass from the forest floor. Kyla exhaled slowly, moving minutely to get a better look at the entire creature and it's far more intimidating passenger. She let out a silent hiss as she beheld the animal was riderless and was, in fact, tethered to a tree. Heart rate rising again Kyla quickly scanned the surrounding area in alarm. Where was the bastard? It was apparent the rider had moved forward on foot. Did he dismount because he sensed someone was near? Damn the man, was he a tracker? Kyla began to move instinctively towards the clearing where she had left Calum, keeping within sight of the trail. How much of a head-start did the Roman have? She threw caution to the wind and moved faster than she had before, each step that she didn't sight the foreigner her heart grew heavier.

She was getting ever closer to the rendezvous point, heart a flutter, when she spotted something ahead. She paused. The Roman stood some five meters before Kyla with his back to her. Her quick eye took in the details rapidly. He was not dressed as other Roman soldiers she'd seen before at a distance. His leather attire was more foreign looking than even they wore, with dozens of metal rings covering his jerkin. He was tall and his dark hair fell unkempt to his shoulders.

Most telling of all, perhaps, was the utter stillness with which he held himself. His posture was straight, shoulders back, head inclined down and slightly to one side. He knew she was there, Kyla comprehended immediately, and he was waiting for her move. He had a bow and quiver on his back but more worryingly was the long blade at his side which currently resided in its sheath. Her dagger and the slingshot she carried were no match for it. The moment stretched on. If she backed away would he leave her be? If she ran, would he follow? Lead him away from Calum, or attack him now? Kyla knew she could not fight whilst in retreat. Quick, decide!

Kyla sprang forward, realising she had to give Calum the best possible chance to get away. She hastened through what branches stood in her way, dagger at the ready, not uttering a sound. She had hoped to have the advantage of him having to draw his weapon but by the time her dagger flashed out within reach of him he had parried her hasty slash with his larger blade, sending a shock up her right arm with the impact. She was used to being the smaller opponent and knew her best tactic was to tire her rival out before going in for a fatal blow. Kyla danced away from him again, leaving herself open for an obvious attack which she could easily deflect ,but her adversary did not seem to be falling for it like the boys in her village usually did. He stood motionless, poised, ready to continue at a seconds notice. Kyla's green eyes met her enemies untroubled brown ones. An inkling of fear crept into her heart as she considered she may have bitten off more than she could chew, but there was no backing down now.

Ditching her previous tactic she lunged forward again, feigning to her right before, quick as an arrow, she aimed a blow to his right thigh. The foreigner lost the advantage of his longer reach when she was willing to get so close and her blade successfully connected with his flesh before she danced away again out of reach and circling to his right. No noise had escaped the Roman, if that was what he was, when her blade had bit into his flesh but she could see him reassessing her, as if only seeing her truly for the first time. He let out a short 'Hmm' and minutely changed his stance, sword held ready again for her next assault. His brown eyes held a slight sparkle that had previously been absent.

Kyla suddenly realised as she strove forward again that she had just lost the advantage of her enemy underestimating her, namely, because of her sex. He was sparring with her, anticipating all of her moves a split second before she made them, each of his in return economical, not one wasting an ounce of energy, and when they parted it was Kyla who's blood had been let. She gritted her teeth as she took in the large wound he had opened on her left upper arm. She glared across at her enemy as she breathed raggedly. She wondered how much fight she had left in her, no doubt that he was wondering the same thing. He was stronger than her and he matched her in speed and agility.

Knowing she was outmatched but, desperately thinking of Calum, she lunged again. Every second she distracted the Roman was another second she had bought Calum. Their blades connected, both moving with speed and grace, alternatively attacking and blocking with grunts of exertion from both sides before the foes parted again. Not hesitating this time Kyla threw herself into the fray once more, but after some quick sparring it was the Roman who successfully made contact. Kyla couldn't help crying out as his blade sliced across her abdomen as, too slow, she pulled her body away to avoid the blow. She retreated again and he did not the press the advantage.

He watched her as she pressed her left forearm against her damaged stomach. Kyla judged that it didn't go deep, but it still hurt. With a small roar she went for him again, her pain fuelling her attack and he retreated before her, though successfully blocking her increasingly desperate slashes. In one second the momentum of the battle changed and Kyla was on the defence again. He pressed her harder than before and she struggled to keep one step ahead. Seeing an opening she flowed forward, drawing her dagger in a back slash and triumphantly connecting with his right arm, albeit it shallowly. Her glory was snatched away in the blink of an eye. They both froze, her letting her dagger dangle uselessly at her side, him with his curved blade poised at her throat.

Kyla's stomach did a flip as her eyes glazed over in defeat and she gazed off into nothingness.

'Don't you dare come out.' she called loudly, quickly, her voice strong and clear, hoping Calum heeded her words, predicting he was not far away.

'The village must know. The village is the most important. Warn them. Wait five hundred heartbeats after he is gone and warn them. May the Gods give your feet wings little brother.' She prayed he would not appear. Her gaze slid to meet the cold brown eyes of her enemy as she loosened her hold on her hunting blade, letting it fall with a muffled thud to the forest floor. His eyes were unfathomable as she inclined her head the smallest amount, drawing in breathes quickly through her nose, her chest still heaving. 'Make it quick' she thought to him, then closed her eyes to await the fatal blow.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two as promised, should be more to follow.

I'm really enjoying trying to figure Tristan's internal monologue and reactions out. Reviews will feed my hunger for continuing the story, would love to know your thoughts. Enjoy!

**Chapter 2.**

Tristan listened as the 'wild' woman called out in a clear, strong voice, as if addressing the forest around her, her eyes unseeing. There was a handful of people at the Wall who understood the language of the Picts but Tristan certainly was not one of them. In his line of duty there was no need for conversations with the natives who lived to the North. Was she praying to her Gods one last time before she died, he wondered? Was she communicating with another Woad? It was not a stretch to think there could be others near by, but if so why hadn't they come to her assistance by now? Surely they would not let her die alone. He knew enough about this enemy of the Roman empire to know they were fiercely loyal to each other. Rome's enemies, he thought bitterly, not his, and soon he would no longer be Rome's indebted killer.

The Woad must have made her peace because her fiery green eyes focused on him once more. She intrigued him more than he let on. Tristan was ever a master at controlling his features, never betraying the thoughts and emotions vying underneath. He had heard her approach before she had spotted him, but only moments before. He had stood there, motionless, waiting for an indication of who was behind him and what they intended to do, listening for the tell tale stretch of a bowstring. He had been back-tracking small, fresh footprints which he had concluded belonged to a woman or adolescent, so when he heard the advance he wasn't taken aback to see the female. He turned to meet her, sword drawn. She had uttered no sound when she charged at him which he, subconsciously, approved of. Many of his brothers where unnecessarily vocal when engaging in combat and it was one of the myriad of small differences that set him apart from his brethren. He had countered her first move easily, seeing the jarring effect it had on her, but she was nimble and danced away from him immediately.

What sort of demon had possessed her to attack him with such a small blade, he wondered. She stood, exposing a target of tender flesh on her left side just out of reach, waiting for his move. Tristan knew a trap when he saw one and held his position, forcing her to abandon her tactic and attack again. She was quick as a cat and surprised him, feigning to one side before getting passed his reach and landing a blow to his right thigh. They parted again. Tristan had received much worse in the past, but it had been a long time since someone, _anyone_, had even drawn his blood. He knew that Woad women where just as likely to pick up a blade as their men but this was his first time to encounter one in a fight. She was charged with barely restrained energy, hair untamed and eyes flashing brightly. He had underestimated her, but not any more. 'Hmm' Tristan took the measure of her and readjusted his stance slightly.

She fought bravely, with fire in her belly, he couldn't deny it, but he was stronger, more experienced, and ultimately the better of the two. He landed a blow across her stomach that would have been fatal if she had been one second slower in trying to avoid it, yet she fought on. He set her up, much the same as she had tried to do earlier, giving her an opening to lunge for thus exposing her throat . He had not expected her to have made contact and he gave this due credit, but it mattered little when his blade was sitting at her exposed jugular.

And here she was now, calmly accepting her own demise, nodding her head curtly in recognition of this defeat and then closing those green eyes, thinking never to open them again.

He should honour her by killing her swiftly, his blade was sharp and he was strong enough to take her head with one blow. And yet Tristan hesitated. Something, some feeling he didn't fully comprehend, stayed his hand. He couldn't explain it, but he knew that he wanted to see those eyes again.

'So what then', his thoughts came fast and quick, 'let her go?'

Her injuries were not necessarily fatal but Tristan didn't yet know where her settlement was. If it was far, she might collapse of blood loss before she got there, if it was near he would have more than one, lone Pictish woman to deal with very soon. His scouting mission had lead him in a direction further into the woods than he'd previously ventured. There had been an increase in attacks by gangs of young, male Woads against Roman patrols near this section of the Wall and Arthur had asked him to investigate. Before now he had not come across much evidence of a settlement in this area of the forest but clearly he was heading in the right direction. If she was free to return to her people the Woads would know to be vigilant, making further scouting missions more treacherous, nigh impossible. Not thinking too far ahead at the consequences, Tristan quickly drew his sword back and, using the base of the grip, swiftly brought it down with a crack on her temple. Kyla immediately dropped unconscious to the leaf strewn floor.

Tristan sheathed his sword and expelled a rush of air through his nose. 'What now?' he wondered as he stood over her. Pushing any discomfort his own injuries may be causing him to the back of his mind, he reached down to lift up the prone woman. He grunted slightly as he adjusted his grip on her, then started to make his way back to Saratos, his grey destrier. He didn't have far to go before being greeted by a low whinny from his mount. Saratos tossed his head and shook out his mane, clearly restless and ready to be untied and loose to move again.

'Hmm, not yet boy' Tristan said gruffly as he set Kyla gently back onto the ground at the horses feet.

Most herbivores would shy at the smell of blood but Saratos was raised for battle and conditioned to resist his natural urge to flee. Taking an interest in the new addition he bent his head low and snorted at Kylas hair. Tristan absently scratched the beast behind the ears as he knelt over her and studied the damage he had inflicted. Her left upper arm had the deepest wound, bleeding freely down her arm, mixing with the sweat she had worked up during the fight, but he concluded that there was not much muscle damage. He peeled back the slashed pieces of her woven tunic, now stained crimson, examining the injury on her abdomen that he found beneath, confirming it was more superficial. He rose swiftly and rummaged in the saddle bag, extracting a small bundle of material.

Kneeling once more, he unfolded the package to reveal several tightly wound strips of cloth cushioning a small earthenware pot sealed with wax around the stopper. Jols was much more than a valet to all of the knights. He was an integral part of their unusual family and had a gift for anticipating their needs. Secreted away in the bottom of all of the knights saddlebags was just such a package, containing a viscous healing salve and bandaging in case any of them took wounds while away from the Wall. Tristan scratched at the seal with his thumb nail and un-stoppered the ointment. He briefly examined his hands, caked in dirt, and decidedly reached for a nearby leaf and proceeded to use it to spread the salve in and around her injuries. He quickly secured a bandage around her arm but it took some manoeuvring to dress her stomach, having to raise her waist slightly to reach behind her back.

Satisfied he had done all he could for the time, he paused and gently brushed her dark curling hair away from her forehead revealing the already blossoming bruise underneath. She'd have a bump that even Bors would be proud of, but she'd survive. He took a moment to drink in her features while she was not attempting to open his throat. Her cheekbones where defined and her jawline sharp. Her eyebrows were narrow and highly arched, heavy lashes lay on the dark rings under her eyes. Her nose was small and her lips full, and though he couldn't see them now, he knew her eyes were the palest shade of green.

Tristan frowned as he looked at her. He was an efficient killer. Some of his brothers even suspected he took a little too much pleasure from killing and they weren't far wrong. He was good at it, more than good. This was partially down to endless hours of training and partially through natural talent. He only felt truly in control of his own fate when he was pitted against another in battle, and to Tristan, a man in servitude, it was his life's blood. He enjoyed the company of his brother knights, but contributed little to their general banter, preferring his position as spectator. He enjoyed the company of his animals more, and his own company most of all. Of women he'd had his fair share, but none had kept his interest for longer than a night or two. So when it come to it, Tristan had no qualms in killing any living creature, and was disinclined to have his head turned by a pretty face and yet he had somehow found himself in his current situation. He absent mindedly rested his hand on the handle of his sword as he again considered killing her.

'So what now?', Tristan thought again. Her wounds were bandaged, he could leave her be to make her way home when she came to, or for her people to eventually come across her. They would then know from her tale that the Romans were sending scouts to this area. If he killed her they'd surmise the same, perhaps launch more attacks near the Wall in retaliation. If he took her, what then? They might assume she had come across her demise at the end of a Roman sword but without a body to tell the tale of her death they couldn't be sure. Tristan liked things simple and this situation he was creating seemed more and more complicated by the minute.

Having decided on a course of action, Tristan took a dagger from his belt. He reached down to the unmoving woman, still wondering if he'd made the right choice, and cut loose the two rabbits she had tied around her hips. At least he would eat well tonight he thought. Rising, he attached them to his saddle and, whilst there, removed a length of hempen rope from his second saddlebag. Holding Kyla's wrists together he bound them tightly, looping a length around her waist to restrict her reach. He attached the loose end to his saddle. In a tug o' war he knew that Saratos would always win.

Tristan reached for his water skin and took a long draught from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, taking a moment to absorb the stillness of the forest. There was still good light, leaving him hours to make headway back to the Wall. He looked down at Kyla again. If it had been in his nature to outwardly show emotion it would have materialized in a sigh. Silently he angled his water skin, holding it above her head, allowing a trickle to fall on to her face. Receiving no response he repeated the action, letting a stronger flow of water splash onto the woman. He was rewarded for his efforts when a pair of startling green eyes shot open in confusion, accompanied by a sharp intake of air. Tristan braced himself for the Woad's next move.


	3. Chapter 3

Well it looks like I'll be continuing this story on for a while yet =) Very busy currently (a good thing!) so not sure how often I'll get to update, but I do know the general direction I want it to go. Thank you to all who have added this story to their alerts, and of course to those who've taken the time to review. It's all very encouraging!

So here's the third instalment, a bit shorter than the previous two but a scene that needed Kyla's perspective. Enjoy!

**The Woad in the Woods**

**Chapter 3**

Kyla opened her eyes and dragged a lung full of air into her chest before expelling it again quickly. She was vaguely aware of something external having woken her up and momentarily watched the branches of the trees above her, swaying slightly to the backdrop of a clear blue sky, with some confusion. Her eyes darted around the sunlit leaves as if searching for an answer to a question she did not yet know. She closed her eyes again and took some deep breaths, struggling to gather her thoughts. Her features gradually contorted into a grimace as the almighty pain in her head made its presence known, tearing a small groan from her lips. Kyla instinctively went to raise her hand to her forehead, discovering in the process that she was unable to do so. She raised her head sharply to survey her hands but immediately drop it back to the forest floor with a gasp as the pain in her head increased tenfold with the sudden movement.

Kyla rolled onto her side, her body curling around itself as she scrunched her eyes shut tightly, waiting for the ache to subside, unable to stop the small whimpers that escaped her. She hesitantly opened, first one, then both eyes as she took in the bindings around her wrists, automatically testing them while her mind started to rapidly piece together the events leading up to this moment. Heart picking up pace, Kyla rolled once more, getting a face full of dirt as she used her head and shoulder to push herself into a kneeling position, slowly fighting to raise her head without causing another shot of searing pain. Her mind was alerting her to several concerns simultaneously, the pounding in her head, the bindings that restrained her, the abdominal pain currently causing her discomfort in her hunched position along with the stinging ache in her left arm. Finally able to look about her through a curtain of her dishevelled, partially wet hair, Kyla located the source of her problems.

The Roman was standing about three meters away next to his horse, watching her, his right hand clasping his left wrist in a non threatening manner. He was composed of that same stillness displayed earlier, no indication of whether he would move or not. Though clearly a danger, he didn't seem inclined to attack her just now. At any rate, she thought, if he had wanted her dead he'd already passed up the perfect opportunity. Kyla's mind raced to a dark place but she refused to dwell on what possible purpose he had kept her alive for, instead she examined the rope around her wrists while acutely aware of the man silently watching. She tested them thoroughly, confirming how frustratingly well she'd been bound. At the very least it looked as though Calum was not sharing her fate, she thought and hoped he was well on his way back towards the village by now.

Kyla gathered her legs under her and rose shakily to her feet, feeling minutely more in control with that one action. Her eyes followed the trail of rope leading back to where it was fastened to the horse's saddle, knowing better than to pit her strength against the great beast currently tossing it's head impatiently. One fight against the odds was quite enough for one day, she thought bitterly.

She sized up her enemy, satisfied that she hadn't imagined that she'd hurt him in some way, noting that the two wounds she had caused were, as of yet, untreated, though clearly not damaging enough to require immediate attention. Kyla's gaze dropped momentarily, registering properly the dressings of her own afflictions, before raising her eyes suspiciously to the man once again. She internally shuddered at the thought of a Roman laying his hands on her. He must have carried her the short distance to where his horse was tethered and tended her wounds here, she assumed. That darker part of her mind immediately tried to supply different scenarios of where _else_ upon her body his hands may have strayed while she lay unconscious but Kyla quickly quashed such thoughts, relegating them to a far corner of her mind to worry about at a more appropriate time. There was nothing to do now but get through the next few moments.

The Roman tilted his head ever so slightly to one side, a minuscule motion but one that made Kyla suddenly very aware of being appraised. Her chin rose defiantly in return, straightening her posture while outwardly ignoring her aches and pains as best she could, as she waited for some indication of what he would do next. Kyla turned his assessing look back on to him, refusing to acknowledge how unsettling it was. He certainly was an unusual Roman. Several things marked his as being different, the thick beard, the partially braided hair that fell unheeded over one eye, the high cheekbones and the unusual markings gracing them, as well as his general attire. All Kyla knew was the he wasn't one of her people and that, above all others, marked him as an enemy. Why have you kept me alive, she wondered, silently willing him to answer her unasked question.

The piercing cry of a hawk cut through the woodlands from high above, drawing the Romans eyes briefly skywards before seemingly galvanising him into action. He quickly turned and mounted his horse without any signs of being hindered by his wounds, she noted dismally. The beast danced around while adjusting to the weight of his rider once more, tautening the rope between it and Kyla in the process, catching her momentarily off balance. Righting her footing once more her eyes rose to meet those of the Romans, reading clearly the unspoken message on his face: keep up or be dragged behind. Without a moments hesitation he directed the stallion further down the trail, leaving Kyla no choice but to follow suit, balefully glancing behind her in the direction she hoped Calum had gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**The next instalment, getting inside Tristan's head once more. **

**A warning that there may be a delay in the next chapter as I plan to be quite busy in the next month or two. Please do keep the reviews coming, I am so very grateful for them and I'll keep writing as long as I know you want to keep reading.**

Tristan had kept Saratos moving at a steady pace for some miles now, picking their way through the darkening woods in the general direction of the Wall. Once they had broken through the boundaries of the trees he would make for Badon Hill, girl in tow, though what he would do when he got there currently mystified him.

It had been apparent that the girl in question was experiencing a degree of pain when she had come to, but there was nothing he could do about that that he hadn't already done. He imagined she was in the throes of a splitting headache judging by her grimace, and it gave him little pleasure. Tristan, careful not to move and cause more alarm, observed as she had gotten to her feet, albeit unsteadily, her eyes following the rope to where it was attached to Saratos, glancing at her bandaged wounds, mind clearly ticking over the implications, before meeting his gaze defiantly giving him a taste of those angry greens again.

He wondered at her outwardly calm acceptance of her situation, much as she had displayed earlier at the receiving end of his sword, and found that it was eliciting some small admiration. He felt the weight of her judgement as she clearly sized him up, her flitting expressions betraying the fact her mind was working furiously. He would have expected retaliation from most people in her situation, but it didn't come.

He was wondering if all Woad women would have acted the same way, before Tamura's impatient call from the skies above had returned his attention to the matter at hand. No time for pondering. His priority now was to get them out of the general area as quickly as possible.

Tristan had been quietly relieved, yet somehow unsurprised, when the woman had followed behind without conflict, not that the alternative he had implied to her was an attractive one. He had given some thought as to whether this was an indication that she had the foresight to know when to choose her battles, but this conflicted with her attacking him in the first place and left him continuing to puzzle her out.

_'Why had the damned woman attacked me any way?'_ he found himself thinking. If you come across something dangerous in the woods, a lone wolf, an enemy, you give it a wide berth, perhaps wait a moment to see if it poses a threat before you rush head long at it with an inferior hunting knife.

This train of thought led him to considered whether he _would_ have just let her retreat once he'd become aware of her, and he easily concluded that the answer was probably 'no'. Allowing a Woad, who had witnessed him trespassing on their territory, to live and tell the tale would not have occurred to him...until now. He was too vulnerable alone to risk his enemies becoming aware of his presence. His ability to stay hidden, to observe from the shadows, to quietly dispose of those who crossed his path was what made him such a successful scout. So while he had not killed the woman, he could not have allowed her that opportunity to 'tell the tale'. And exactly _why_ he had not just disposed of her wrestled uneasily in his mind.

_'Perhaps I'm just getting tired of killing' _he scoffed with amusement, bringing the smallest hint of a smile to play on his lips, _'I could join Galahad in his never ending wheel of shame and denial'_

He glanced back at the girl surreptitiously, something he'd thus far avoided, as he heard her stumble once more, briefly feeling a tug on the saddle as she struggled to stay upright, avoiding being dragged unceremoniously across the ground. Once steadied, she took some extra quick steps to slacken the rope between her and the horse once more, eyes trained on the placement of her feet. His focus returned forward but not before he had registered how pale she was beginning to look and how her movements had become sluggish, evidence of her depleting energy. At the beginning of their journey he had heard her occasionally struggle with the uneven terrain but it was apparent by the increased frequency of these incidents that she was finding the going much more difficult now.

_'And if she does, what is it to me?'_ he sneered internally He had no duty of care to her, she was a bloody Woad for crying out loud. He'd no problem dragging her body forcibly behind him if she had refused to cooperate, but he paused as he considered that she may be _unable_ to do so.

Tristan assessed the cloudless sky, illuminated with the subdued colours of twilight, registering the faint appearance of two stars. It was noticeably darker under the canopy of branches and the evening chorus of songbirds had begun to permeate the air. Another fifteen minutes or so and he judged they would be breaking the cover of the trees, but it would be long dark before they reached Badon Hill at this pace and he very much doubted the girl had much left in her to continue that far.

Tristan reined Saratos in decidedly when he spotted a fallen tree to one side of their path, giving the beast a solid pat on it's powerful neck in the process. Dismounting quickly, only mildly discomfited by his injured right thigh, he passed the reins over the horse's head and lead him to stand by it. Dropping the reins momentarily, confident in Saratos's training that he wouldn't stray, Tristan proceeded to shorten first one, then the other stirrup whilst ignoring the uneasy looking girl who was keeping as much distance as the length of the rope would allow between them.

Once he had the saddle adjusted Tristan turned to the wary girl, his left shoulder settling under the horses neck, his arm circling underneath to reassuringly stroke the obedient animal, murmuring to him quietly in his mother tongue. Though she had followed behind without upset, he doubted that the fight had gone out of her and was certain she was just biding her time, making him conscious of not giving her any opportunity. She was clearly exhausted yet her muscles trembled in anticipation of action and her eyes were bright, alert. No, she was not defeated yet. With a short jerk of his head, and gleam in his eye, he gestured to the woman to come closer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you to all those who are still following this story and who've been kind enough to leave reviews. The chapters may be slow in coming but I still have a passion to complete this story. I'd particularly like to thank Kristall who has reviewed every chapter I've put up, the very first of which helped spurn me to keep writing this story. Also to Knight's Queen, Cleo Nightingale, Avalon the LadyKiller for your continued support. It means a great deal to me. This chapter is a bit longer than the last couple so I hope you enjoy!**

**Also check out the drawing my friend . did for me for this story on my banner. Damn but she draws a hot Tristan!**

The Woad in the Woods

Chapter 5

Though the horse moved at a steady walk Kyla had to quicken her normal pace to keep up with it's much longer stride. She very quickly discovered that having her arms restricted compromised her balance and found the terrain she usually had no trouble traversing becoming problematic. Every root and protruding branch seemed almost sentiently trying to impede her. It took a couple of miles for Kyla to become accustomed to the pain in her head that was rhythmically thumping with every step she took, reverberating from the soles of her feet to rattle in her brain. She was well used to ranging over many miles but never before when she had been carrying injuries and she was beginning to find it hard to ignore the gnawing hunger pains adding to her discomfort. She balefully eyed the two fat rabbits swaying temptingly from the horses saddle.

Kyla's eyes slid from the rabbits to her captor and she passed some comparatively pleasurable time thinking of increasingly creative ways to kill him. The Roman had not deigned to look back at her once, nor slacken the steady pace. She had exhausted ideas for ways to escape and was finding her capacity for thinking of anything other than the placement of her feet was diminishing.

In an attempt to create some order in her troubled mind Kyla took stock of her situation. First and foremost, she was alive. That in itself was surprising, but for how much longer or for what purpose she couldn't tell. Considering it dismaying to dwell on this too long, Kyla's thoughts moved swiftly on. What next? She was injured. Injured, but not fatally so. Though the bandages were saturated in her blood they had achieved their goal of stemming the flow, despite the fact she had been exerting herself since receiving them. Then there was the bindings. She was twice bound, by her wrists and to the damned beast who's rear she could happily do without seeing ever again in her lifetime...however long that may be. But her legs, they were free, free to carry her away if they were given half a chance, and she would take whatever chances came her way. The thing Kyla found hardest to ignore, and possibly most worrying, was her hunger. She had broken her fast that morning on flat bread and a handful of tart, dark berries that were unseasonably early this year. That was at daybreak and her stomach acknowledged this by rumbling it's dissent. She felt hollow and drained and began worrying about the inevitable tumble that would see her dragged across the rough forest trail. Thirst came a close second in her growing list of woe, though relatively speaking it had not been so long since she's slaked her thirst with Callum before parting ways, leaving the cumbersome water skin with the him.

"_No"_, Kyla reprimanded herself, _"do not dwell on the boy, he is safe, he is safe, he is safe."_ This became her mantra for some moments, distracting her enough to misplace her footing and stumble forward once more.

Kyla's stomach dropped as she experienced a moment of free-fall, her head suddenly clear and alert as she managed to get her right foot out quickly enough to catch herself from colliding with the ground. She faltered briefly, regaining her balance, not helped by the sudden jerk forward she was subjected to by the rope which now strained between her and the horse. She wearily jogged forward, creating slack on the tether once more. Shocked into alertness Kyla's eyes kept to the ground in anticipation of more obstacles, wishing she had kept her hair bound as it swung annoyingly around her face. For this reason it took her weary brain longer than normal to perceive the horse drifting off to one side of the trail and suddenly halting. If not for a quick glance forward she may have walked right into it's rump.

Kyla's heart rate picked up once more and she subconsciously began taking steps backwards, until the rope impeded her retreat. She watched the Roman dismount. He still did not seem physically bothered by the trivial wounds she had inflicted on him and, considering she had been exerting herself for hours whilst he had been astride a horse, she was very much aware of her odds if they came to blows once again, to say nothing of her lack of weapons and freedom of movement.

Kyla assumed he had lead the horse to the fallen tree so that he could secure it there and was thus surprised when he dropped the reins completely and began to attend to the saddle. She had presumed that he meant to take her to the Wall since they had been moving steadily in a south-easterly direction so her thoughts were in turmoil once more about what he intended to do with, or to, her by this turn of events. Surely if he had meant to kill her he would have done so before now, he had ample opportunity. She had previously supposed the same about any more nefarious actions he had planned for her, until now. Why bring her all this way? Why wait so long? Did he mean to exhaust her first with this condemned march? Well more fool him if he thought she would engage willingly or not put up a fight. Kyla's hands wrapped satisfyingly around the end of the rope closest to her bound wrists, alternatively unclenching and clenching it tightly in an effort to avoid cutting the palms of her hands with her nails.

Apparently finished with his ministrations to the saddle, the Roman settled himself by the horse's shoulder, speaking quietly to the animal whilst watching her. The few words that floated to Kyla on the breeze were unfamiliar, certainly not Latin. And there they stood, watching each other, him with the smallest hint of amusement, her with blatant animosity. The Roman gave a short jerk of his head, indicating her to come closer. Kyla didn't move, other than furrowing her brows slightly with the incredulous look on her face. Was this man serious? He thought she would willingly come to him? Perhaps when trees bloom in Autumn she would!

After some more moments of unrelenting eye contact, the Roman took a step to the side of the horse and, with a small sweep of his hand, he indicated the saddle, his head inclined slightly in invitation. Kyla, disbelieving his gall, remained unmoving. Did he take her for a halfwit? She watched as his glance briefly strayed to the rope separating them.

'_Yes, you son of a dog_', Kyla thought bitterly, ' _that's the only way you're getting me near you_.'

Unexpectedly, the Roman began to slowly back away from the horse, further down the trail, the only time his eyes left hers where when he briefly held his hand up in front of his mount's head in what appeared to be a command to stay. The horse's ears flicked forwards and backwards a couple of times before shifting the weight of his hindquarters onto one back leg and settling. About two meters away the Roman stopped, daring the girl to accept the invitation.

Kyla was feeling tempted. He hardly wanted her to mount the horse so he could let her go, she concluded that he intended to lead her somewhere. Kyla found it hard to believe that a stinking Roman would be capable of compassionately seeking to ease the strain she was finding her body in. Was he just tricking her into getting within reach without the hassle of dragging her to him? Then again, if she managed to get on the horse it could be her one chance to get away. No, he was still close enough to grab her. Kyla eyed the animal longingly for a heartbeat before resolutely staring the Roman down again.

The Roman's only reaction was to back away further down the trail. Kyla had to lean slightly to one side to keep the horse from obstructing her view of the man, not wanting to take her sight off of him, but she couldn't help it if her treacherous eyes strayed once more to the beast. Once an implement of her detention it was beginning to take the form of her route to freedom. Was the Roman daft to give her this chance? Still mistrusting the motives behind the situation she found herself in, Kyla took one hesitant step forward, ready to back away if the man moved an inch. Kyla waited, her entire body tense, still clutching the rope in her hands. The Roman didn't move. She took another wary step forward, but he stayed put.

At this point, as she found her feet moving irresistibly towards the fallen tree, noting that the Roman would have to clear it before getting to her, thus affording her some time to retreat, it occurred to Kyla that she couldn't ride a horse. Not that that would stop her from attempting it.

Being surrounded by woodland it was unnecessary for her village to keep horses, they kept very little livestock at all. They relied on the river that cut a path through the forest to transport themselves and their goods to other villages and mainly sourced their fresh meat through hunting. Of course, they had hosted many travellers and traders over the years so the equine beasts were not entirely unfamiliar. It was on one such occasion that Kyla had her single experience of riding a horse, if it could be called that. The son of a visiting trader had taken a shine to Kyla and her vagabond group of friends, letting each have a turn on his shaggy mountain pony. The saddle had no stirrups to speak of, just four protruding horns, two on either side, that your legs rested in between. It had been a source of pride that Kyla had managed to stay on a little longer than most of her friends before being abruptly unseated by the ponies skittish antics. There had been many a bruised tailbone that day, it had not helped to endear the creatures to Kyla.

Kyla's eyes darted between the man, who remained motionless though diligent, and the animal she was approaching. This was no mountain pony, no, this was a very intimidating, very large beast bred for the battlefield, though it seemed to currently be adopting the mannerism of it's master, remaining still other than the occasional swish of it's tail to dislodge the array of flying insects that were feasting upon it.

Reaching the tree Kyla raised the rope over the tangle of roots still partially attached to the ground. After a moments hesitation she swung one leg over the horizontal trunk. She waited a few heartbeats as she watched her captor, making sure he was not about to act, before using her other leg to propel herself into a straddling position on the tree, desperately wishing her hands were free. Gathering first one, then the other leg under her, Kyla began to rise.

She panicked briefly as she lost her balance, almost pitching forward with no way to break her fall before rocking back on to her heels and regaining stability. She snapped her head around to look at the Roman in panic, having taken her eyes off of him, but he remained where he was standing, silent with no way to read into his expression. Kyla took some calming breathes before rising fully. Each step she took towards the animal was punctuated by reassuring glances at the unmoving Roman.

Kyla could feel the rising euphoria in the pit of her stomach as she reached the horse. She noted that this saddle was different to the trader's son's, it had a metal ring to rest your foot in. With no comfortable way to steady it with her hands Kyla resorted to inching her toe into the left stirrup whilst balancing on her right leg. She could feel the urgency and panic bubbling up in her as she struggled to get a decent footing in the hold, expecting the Roman to finally close his trap on her or the horse to move off at any moment. Triumphantly, Kyla felt her foot slide into place. She hopped slightly on her right leg before leaning her weight into the stirrup and throwing her other leg over the saddle. Her right foot found the second stirrup without difficulty.

Kyla sat there, breathing heavily, stunned. The horse had stood there patiently as she had scrambled on top of him and it now allowed her to tangle her fingers into it's long grey mane. She met the unwavering eyes of the Roman who continued to watch her from a distance, as yet, motionless. Kyla couldn't fathom his actions but she refused to dwell on it whilst her freedom was within her grasp. Clinging on to the horse's mane, feeling a surge of energy she raised both feet and brought her heels down sharply into it's side, giving out a guttural cry of encouragement to the animal. Kyla allowed herself the smallest of smiles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter to you, as you can see I still intend to finish this story so many thanks to all who are following, reviewing and faving. It means so much to me to know that there are people awaiting the next instalment. **

**Next chapter should land us in Badon Hill, which means knights!**

**The Woad in the Woods**

**Chapter 6.**

Saratos jumped to action as the Woad girl dug her heels into his ribcage, nearly unseating her in the process as she visibly tightened her grip on his mane. The barely contained delight that lit up her face was observed from a few meters away.

Tristan didn't toy with his opponents, as a cat would torment a shrew before ending it's life. He was not one for grandstanding and posturing. In a fight his strikes were precise and swift as he granted death with little fuss. It sat unwell with him to have resorted to trickery but it had appeared to be the easiest way to get her to mount Saratos without conflict. The girl was hurt, exhausted and in no position to put up a fight but he was sure that wouldn't have stopped her trying. His mood soured, if it was possible, as Saratos proceeded to stop dead, dropping his chin to his chest, very nearly throwing the girl in the process. The abrupt alteration caused her to call out in alarm, before Saratos began to take awkward steps backwards with her draped momentarily over his neck as he return to his position by the fallen tree, bobbing his head disobediently.

The girl, righting herself, with a look of desperation falling across her features, tried once more to encourage the conniving steed into action. Her desires, though clearly translated to the animal through her furiously kicking legs, where denied outright as Saratos refused to advance even one step.

Tristan was not particularly emphatic, but watching the realisation of what had transpired dawn on the girl gave him no satisfaction. It was evident in the sudden cessation of her frantic movements followed quickly by the slump in her posture. The girl relinquished her hold on the horses mane, her hands lying limp in her lap, her eyes unfocused on any one point, her face appeared on the verge of crumbling. She turned her head away from Tristan, as if attempting to hid her vulnerability from him, but it was short moments again before she pulled her shoulders back once more, straightened her head and raised her chin decidedly. Her expression was grim but, though she refused to make eye contact with him, Tristan could see the spark had not diminished in her eyes which he found somewhat comforting. Strange girl. He was coming to the conclusion that any preconceived notions he had about how a woman would react in any given situation would rarely apply to her. Perhaps he was just giving women in general very little credit.

Before he examined his own psyche too profoundly, and the girl had a chance to rethink her compliance, Tristan gave a low melodic whistle to which Saratos responded to immediately. Trying to remain unfazed at the sudden momentum, the Woad quickly grabbed on to the horse's mane once more as he made his way spritely to his master. She continued to avoid his gaze once Saratos had reached him, choosing instead to stare directly ahead of them down the path. Tristan quickly removed his sheathed dao sword from his hip to rest at his back, where it usually resided. He gathered up the reins still dangling feely from the horse's bridle, taking the opportunity to examine the Woad briefly while he had her in such close proximity before turning and starting down the trail at a quick jog, guiding Saratos.

He was confident he'd made the right choice once he'd had a closer look at her, the girl was spent. Though he had no notion what would pass as her usual complexion, she appeared drawn and pale to him, if quite cross as Saratos's sudden obedience. Tristan himself was feeling none the worse for the wounds she had inflicted on him, though even if he had been he'd probably be ignoring it as best he could. Peripherally Tristan could see that, though she didn't keep her seat well, the girl was managing to stay in the saddle as Saratos trotted behind him with his bouncing gait. He hoped they would reach Badon Hill twice as quickly this way.

They reached the perimeter of the forest as the brightest stars presented themselves for the night, the sky a deep azure blue. The Wall was visible in all it's serpentine glory when they crested a hill not far from the wooded boundary. The sight was one that Tristan was familiar with and gave him no reason to pause, yet his sharp hearing picked up the sudden intake of breath from behind him. He supposed that it was an impressive sight if one had not seen it a hundred times before, returning raggedly from another long scouting mission. The Wall itself stood some ten foot high and spanned eighty miles, reaching across the land from coast to coast, though Tristan was only familiar with roughly the fifteen miles either direction from Badon Hill. From the high vantage point he could just make out the larger settlement in the distance by the more vast source of light it cast, as of yet some miles away. Other than the further larger settlements, dotted every mile along the wall was a small fort with a large enough opening for a small cart to pass through, with up to fifty Roman auxiliary soldiers stationed at each. They could be seen patrolling along the top of the Wall by the light of the flaming torches burning every fifty yards. The lights made it easy to follow the line of the wall far to the East and West and, in times of need, larger beacons were set alight to alert the other garrisons.

Tristan, keeping up his wolfish lope, made his way downhill to the nearest small fort, covering the half mile of open land quickly, wishing to cross the immense barricade as soon as possible. He found the general population of the Roman army were suspicious of the infamous Sarmatian knights and primarily treated them with, if not respect, a degree of caution. Tristan in particular seemed to instill in men a level of unease that left them absently resting their hands on their weapons.

About one hundred meters away from the Wall, Tristan slowed his pace to a walk, Saratos reacting in kind at his heels. He glanced at the girl, looking for signs she had any intentions other than staying atop his horse, but noted only that she she looked in awe of the approaching structure. He did not want to startle the men on sentry by rushing the gate but was disgusted that they was a mere ten feet away from the entrance before anyone had even noticed them. He would need to remember to mention it to Arthur when he made his report.

"HALT! And where d'you an' the missus think you're going to at this time o' night? Make yourself known!" came a gruff voice from above the Wall, the visage of a portly, armour clad sentinel peaking over the ramparts.

Tristan's cool stare would have translated into 'looking daggers' on any other man. He and his brothers in arms still dressed in the traditional garb and manner they had adopted before reaching Briton and it immediately marked them as different, but he would have thought that after almost fifteen years in this Gods forsaken country that the other unfortunate souls stationed here would have the sense to recognise a fellow Roman 'recruit' when they saw one.

Tristan realised that he must have become accustomed to the soldiers at Badon Hill being overly accommodating to him and his fellows, he was unused to being refused immediate entry through the partition.

"You deaf? I said declare yourse...ooph" the portly man's head disappeared sharply from view as his sentence was cut abruptly short. Tristan resisted the smirk that longed to play on his lips as the sounds of a ferocious, hushed discussion could be heard from where he stood at ground level.

A different, older face appeared above them.

"You can pass through, Scout" he called, nodding minutely. Tristan returned the gesture and waited to be admitted. With a degree of creaking and groaning the heavy doors opened to reveal the tunnel-like gap through the wall. Giving Saratos a solid pat on his neck, an opportunity to surreptitiously look at the girl's reaction, he moved the trio forward. The fear was evident on her face, still tired looking, but alert. He could see the white knuckled grip she kept were her fingers tangled with the horses hair. He needn't worry about her running at the moment, it seemed she was frozen in place.

The Wall was roughly three meters thick, leaving plenty of room for a murder hole to be situated in the ceiling of the passageway that they passed under. If the wall was breached in times of conflict, boiling oil, or any other missiles to hand, could be deposited on the unwary trespasser.

Tristan gave it none of his attention, his eyes were fixed on the Centurion who had just descended from the ramparts and now stood directly in their path.

"Well met, Scout. You are, of course, free to continue" said the same distinguished older man that had granted them passage from above.

He looked to be in his late forties, he hair greying at the temples, his body only just going to seed yet he still looked like he'd give a lot of the younger men in his charge a run for their money. Tristan was inclined to like him.

"That savage behind you, however, is another story"

Or perhaps not.

**A/N Seems you were both right Kristall and Cleo Nightingale ;) It seems that cheeky Saratos knows who's boss!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Next chapter! Slow and steady wins the race, or so they say. Hopefully there's still interest out there from readers even with the delay between updates. Freelancing means a serious lack of spare time (in a good way!) but this story is still near top of the list when I do get an hour or two to spare. I'm so very appreciative of reviews, makes me more determined to get back to this story quicker. Lend me your thoughts xx**

**The Woad in the Woods**

**Chapter 7.**

"That savage behind you, however, is another story."

Kyla's grasp of spoken, if not written, Latin was sufficient to follow the scene unfolding before her. She thought her heart couldn't race any faster, until she had heard the elder Roman's statement. He had an air of authority about him that implied his word was law, at least here.

It was becoming more common amongst the Pictish tribes, especially the younger generations and those situated closer to the Wall, to posses a working knowledge of their enemy's language. Many in the higher council of Elders condemned the practise, but others, like Merlin and his kin, encouraged it, seeing the advantage one had in understanding ones foe. The respected village herb woman Torra, older by far than most people Kyla knew, held great stock in Merlin's wisdom and educated those willing to learn the foreign tongue.

Kyla was relieved now that she had taken the time to pick up the basics. Ignorance may have been bliss, but it was not in her nature to be kept in the dark. The wandering, hostile eyes of the other soldiers edging closer to the horse beneath her had been enough to set her frayed senses into overdrive, trying and failing to keep them all in her sights. The confirmation that she would not be allowed to continue left her in no doubt that being escorted safely through the Wall once more was also not their intention.

Though the Wall had partially terrified Kyla with it's immense size, it had primarily provoked a sense of awe in the girl, causing her breath to hitch slightly upon laying her eyes on it, briefly forgetting the predicament she found herself in and her wounded pride. She could barely comprehend a structure so gargantuan or the time and effort that had gone into constructing it. As the Roman had lead them down the hill she noted grimly that she would have to apologise to Taran and Drest, if she ever returned home, for scoffing their account of seeing the damned thing. She had done so with great aplomb, going so far as to suggest they should be wary of the twenty foot tall Romans soldiers who must have constructed such a colossal fortification. These musings ceased quickly with every step they took closer to the structure which found Kyla unintentionally freezing up, all thoughts of escape eluding her.

Currently her body was tired and abused yet she could still feel the adrenalin circulating through her and she was certain her limbs would obey her command, stiff as they were from riding. Kyla loosened her death grip on the horse's mane, ignoring the slight shake in her bound wrists, she prepared herself to go down fighting. Her eyes sought out the more familiar figure of the Roman who had lead her to this pit, trussed up like a pig for slaughter.

It appeared that this was not his intended destination, which was some small comfort, though where he had planned to lead her may have been no better. Kyla easily picked up the the fact that she didn't seem to be the only one on the receiving end of the soldiers animosity. A subconscious part of Kyla's mind once more detailed the man's appearance, clothing and hair that marked him as different to the others, and their guarded expressions when their eyes settled upon him. The air was charged, as if any number of outcomes hung in the balance. However, Kyla also noted from her vantage point though it lacked a view of his face, that he seemed relaxed. She didn't know if this should comfort her, or worry her.

The older man had called him by the title 'Scout'. If her Latin was correct, it meant that he was a fact finder who roamed ahead of others to gather information. A great deal of skill was required to be do the task successfully, such that the wielder was usually held in high regard, amongst the Picts at least. Kyla had already played witness to attest to the Roman's aptitude to the position. Though why he would be scouting in the direction of her village still eluded her.

She watched as he barely nodded his head in confirmation of the elder Roman's statement, causing Kyla's heart to plummet somewhere below her navel, before he took a couple of slow steps forward, closing the gap between the two men. There was a ripple of movement from the soldiers surrounding them, some had swords partially drawn, others were in the process of stepping towards the two central figures. All motion stopped as their leader raised his hand, signalling them to desist.

The two men were so close that there was an audible sound as their metal covered chest came into contact. The scout had positioned himself slightly to one side of the older Roman, almost cheek to cheek, both equal in height. The elder man had a slightly amused expression on his face, as if to wonder where this was going.

Then the Scout began to talk, quietly.

Kyla strained to hear what he was saying, unknowingly leaning forward in the saddle, to no avail. She could only make out the faint rumble of his speech and watch as the older man's expression slipped to a frown, followed quickly by anger. Face turning red, he dropped his hand to grip his sword handle. The scout didn't react, other than to keep talking, evenly and quietly, his words solely for the commander's ears. Slowly, the anger dissipated, and what was left behind was uncertainty.

The Scout took a step back and met the Centurion's flinty gaze evenly. The older man seemed to be grinding his teeth down significantly going by the twitching muscles of his jaw. His men watched him expectantly. Kyla held her breath.

"Be on your way." he finally said, stepping to one side, heading towards a small doorway to the right. As he stepped through the entrance he paused, one hand on the door frame, and turned back to regard the Scout.

"These men have had a good look at your face now, _Sarmatian_, they'll not be likely to forget it again." he said evenly, and was gone.

The threat was thinly veiled, and was not lost in translation to Kyla. The Scout's only reaction was to coolly step forward to follow the path leading out of the barracks under the open sky. He paid no mind to the few soldiers that frowned, gripping their weapons, internally struggling with their leader's command. No one actively tried to stop him though and his quiet whistle brought the horse beneath her to life once more. Kyla's grip on the horse's mane tightened again at the forward momentum, her eyes taking in all of the hungry, angry looks that the Scout so easily ignored. One particularly repulsive, unkempt looking soldier met her gaze with a sneer, slowly and pointedly rubbing his crotch through his tunic. Kyla's eyes remained forward after that, as a shiver ran down her spine, silently urging the Scout to step up the pace. Much to her disappointment he continued his unhurried stride until they were out of sight of the small fort. Kyla felt the point between her shoulder blades itching and burning for the duration, waiting for an arrow to follow them into the night and find a home in her back.

Once he must have deemed they were a safe distance away, the Scout turned and reached for the horse's reins and began his mile devouring trot once more, leading them further East, the Wall always in view to their left.

As the distance between them and the fort grew, Kyla's anxiety about what lay before her heightened in equal measure. Something that the commanding Roman had said had been niggling in the back of her mind all this time, waiting patiently for the opportunity to be digested properly.

With dawning apprehension Kyla recalled the word the older man had spit out in his final threat. Some of the puzzle pieces began clicking in to place quickly; the strange clothing, the tattoos, the hostile welcome from the other soldiers.

"_How had I not figured this out sooner?"_ she berated herself. Kyla suddenly had a very good idea of where she was being lead, and to whom would be there.

Her 'Roman' was no Roman at all.

The word and all the nightmarish and legendary fire-side stories it conjured rattled around her head with every step closer to their destination.

_'Sarmatian'_

**In the AN from the last chapter I thought Tristan and Kyla would get to Badon Hill by now, but the confrontation in this chapter demanded to be explored more, so it'll have to wait until the next time, sorry. Bring on the Knights!**


	8. Chapter 8

**This speedy update has even surprised me! I had some free time this weekend with the house to myself so I took advantage of it. I haven't gone over this chapter with a fine tooth comb yet so please excuse any grammatical or spelling errors, will get them sorted asap. This chapter was the most challenging yet, there's a change in pace when adding more dialogue but I'm happy with the outcome, as I hope you are.**

**Shout outs to Kristal, Knight's Queen, Avalon the LadyKiller, Cleo Nightingale and Gaara-frenzy for your continued support. Your feedback, and those from the new story followers, makes me want to just write more and more.**

**On with the knights!**

The Woad in the Woods.

Chapter 8.

Tristan was finally feeling the strain of his relentless pace but was rewarded for his tenacity by their arrival at Badon Hill only a couple of hours after dusk. He slowed down to a walk as they past the burial mounds of his fallen brothers, the drifting smoke that marked each grave barely visible in the dark. It had been almost two years since Gaheris had fallen, the last of their brothers to have done so, after thirteen years of bloody servitude. Gawain had felt the loss more keenly as they had come from the same village and been fast friends from an early age. Tristan didn't pause any more at the site, disliking the memories it evoked, and moved steadily on towards the town. A hawk's cry from the trees near by let him know that Tamura had seen him safely back, he'd be unlikely to see her again until he left the confines of Badon Hill once more. He silently wished her good hunting as a diligent call went out from the ramparts above the main double gates while they were still hundreds of meters away and one heavy door slowly creaked open to welcome him home.

Home. Tristan didn't really know where that was for him any more. It had been over fifteen years since he'd last laid eyes on the village he grew up in and it's inhabitants. He often tried but couldn't recall his mother's kind face, or the grim tones of his father's voice. His memories were clouded with the darkness that permeated the house when his father had lapsed into the wanton arms of alcohol, which had become more and more frequent as the years went by. Tristan only saw pain in his haunted eyes when they chanced to settle upon him before turning once more to seek out oblivion at the bottom of an earthenware jug. On the day the Romans came to take him away his father had not been present. Tristan's mother had embraced him one last time, clasped her hands around his freshly marked face and told him that one day he would understand why. He reckoned that he did. He wondered if they were still alive and if he'd ever get to tell them so.

Some of his brothers hearts beat only for the grassy, wild plains of their motherland, counting down the days to begin their long journey back to the bosom of family and friends. Tristan recalled the long months of travel that had brought them to this island and did not relish repeating it. Others, he suspected, were more at home in this blasted outpost than they cared to admit. Bors had had no issues mingling with the locals, at least one in particular at any rate, from an early age. Tristan found it amusing that he had not yet tied the knot with Vanora, as if to keep some pretence of not being attached to this land and it's people. Though when Bors coaxed her to sing of home, none of the knights could help but feel a little lost. For Tristan, home was with his brothers for now and wherever they were, though he could do with avoiding their imminent reunion. He was late returning and knew that they would be gathered at the tavern, cajoling and rowdy, pretending a little too hard that they weren't worried by his absence.

As he crossed through the threshold of the outer wall of the town, waved through by those manning the gate, he remembered his most recent encounter with the Roman legion. He was a fool for not anticipating the scene back at the small fort, absorbing the knowledge he had become lax through his dealing with the Badon Hill battalion who let the knights have the run of the place. Though the Sarmatians kept mainly to themselves, some of them had formed friendships with the local infantry after years of fighting side by side, and had earned the Romans respect in return. There were still those few amongst them who begrudged Arthur's Pagan fighters, but on the whole the knights were warmly welcomed and a source of pride at the fortress.

He doubted the girl would be so readily accepted. He turned his head slightly to look at her briefly and was met with a defiant, yet questioning, look. In her eyes were a hundred questions vying with a hundred accusations, trying to mask the underlying fear that also resided there. She had managed to cling on to Saratos during their hurried journey, but after rallying herself at the last confrontation she truly did seem spent. He had had some small worry that she would try something foolish while surrounded by those stationed at the small fort and had been glad she had not drawn any more attention to herself by acting out. He added threatening the Centurion commander with extremely inventive physical violence followed by the added threat of arranging his immediate transfer of duties to the abandoned Antonine Wall, currently deep in Pict territory, to the list of things he had to remember to mention to Arthur when he debriefed. He wondered how he would explain bringing the Woad prisoner back from a scouting mission. Perhaps it would help if Tristan himself knew his motivation.

As he meandered through the maze of streets, past the Arthur's enclosed residence, closer to the tavern, he let the apprehensive looks from the townsfolk wash over him. Bringing a Woad in amongst the sanctuary of their dwellings was not common practise and they appeared unsure of how to handle it. Some openly stopped and stared, others scurried away, shutting their doors securely behind them, accompanied by mutters of 'blue demon'. He wondered what she would look like painted head to toe in the dye from the plant that gave Woads their name, he imagined she would look quite fierce.

He heard the tavern before he saw it and mentally braced himself, it was always busy at this time of evening.

'Tristan!'

It didn't surprise Tristan that Galahad was the first to spot him. Arguably the most passionate, emphatic of the knights, he would have found it the most difficult to have suppressed the urge to vigilantly scan the surrounding streets. More welcome cries of 'Tristan' were added to Galahad's first exclamation, followed by the more uncertain '...Tristan?'. The slight inflection at the end changing the name from a statement to a question.

Tristan lead his prisoner just shy of the well lit yard in front of the tavern as his brothers rose to their feet, some abandoning games of chance, others depositing slightly inebriated women off of their laps. Most were looking at the girl astride Saratos in confusion, Dagonet however cut straight to the point.

'You've been hurt' he said firmly, approaching his stoic brother, eyes taking in the blood on the sleeve of his tunic and trousers, already assessing the damage, immediately deeming the wounds non consequential, before appraising the girl behind him.

'The girl?' Dagonet enquired. Tristan was unsure if he meant her wounds or her presence in general so he chose the former to answer as it seemed the least complicated.

'Superficial wounds, already dressed.' came his gruff reply.

'Tristan, really? You're bringing home strays now?' Lancelot intoned with a smirk and a lift of one dark eyebrow as he drew nearer, circling around behind the horse to get a better look at the girl, catching her attention in the process.

'She's not a stray' came the curt reply. Tristan was rarely at the receiving end of the others teasing, they lost interest in the pursuit from early in their acquaintance once they realised how difficult it was to get a rise from him. Lancelot knew his brother well enough to recognise the subtle tightening around Tristan's eyes for the warning that it was, and it appeared to delight him. To get any form of reaction from his most unflappable friend was a heady thing indeed it seemed.

'I didn't realise I was monopolising the attention of the local females. There are many _fine_ women here that would gladly spend some time with you Tris and I'm more than willing to share. No need to go to such lengths for a night of debauchery' he smiled widely, playing the innocent. Tristan didn't rise to the bait, knowing the best way to deal with Lancelot was to ignore him.

"Well I'm jus' glad he's back" Bors declared, only slurring his words slightly, clamping one large hand down on Tristan's shoulder and giving him a friendly shake whilst downing the last of his drink.

"Vanora, m'love, fetch me another of your finest" he roared, turning on his heels, waving the empty jug in the direction of the fiery haired woman and stumbling back towards the serving counter, too in his cups to be curious about the presence of the Pict.

"Tristan, what's this all about?" Gawain asked, nodding his head in the direction of the girl.

The question made him uncomfortable, though it was nigh impossible to read this by looking at him. He still had no idea what had stayed his hand from the killing blow, but it was something he needed more time to figure out by himself.

"She came upon me while I was scouting and attacked." he said, not bothering to look at the girl in question. Gawain just frowned at his reply, clearly attempting to unravel the reason why the girl was here instead of in a bloody dead mess across the wall. If he was waiting for Tristan to volunteer any more information he was to be disappointed.

Tristan was suddenly tired. He wanted to eat and drink his fill and be left alone to dissect his thoughts in the privacy of his own room, but there were still many things to be done before he would be able to replay the days events at his leisure. He turned to face his four legged companion and the bothersome load he carried. The look he gave the girl was not friendly. She was watching him warily, while simultaneously trying to observe each and every one of his brothers, as well as the rest of the punters at the tavern who in turn were enthralled by the scene unravelling before them. She was evidently apprehensive of what was to come if her flitting eyes and elevated breathing were any indication, though that stubborn head was still held high for all that. He supposed he'd spared her life thus far so it would be pointless to take her out behind the stables and finish the job now, eliminating any unwanted soul searching in the process. Kill and move on. It was all so simple, usually.

With a nod of his head, his eyes darted from the girl to the ground and back again. She was intuitive, none of his directions were lost on her before, so he knew that she understood his command, she just wasn't obeying. The Woad looked as if the last thing she wanted to do was climb down off of Saratos. She continued cautiously eyeing him and the other knights, some of whom wore quite amused expressions on their faces.

Tristan was regretting not going through the motions of getting her to dismount before they had entered the fort, saving himself the unwanted audience. He gained her scrutiny once more as he moved towards her, navigating around to her left to stand near Saratos's hind leg, passing Lancelot along the way who obligingly moved back a step, still smirking. She swivelled her upper body around to keep him in her sights, lips in a tight line, eyes narrowed, left leg tensing as if to strike. Tristan slowly reached his hand out, eyes still locked on hers, and plucked up the the looped section of rope that hung loose down the horse's side which still kept her tethered to the saddle. He was sure the townsfolk would love nothing better than the spectacle of him physically removing the Woad from atop the horse, with her arms bound and no way to break the fall she could be seriously hurt. Tristan would not hesitate to do it if he had no choice, but he gave her the opportunity to submit to him once more.

The girl's expression broke into one of anguished frustration, teeth gritted, forehead creasing in a frown. She dropped her head and looked away, staring intensely at the horse's mane. Tristan sensed the battle raging within her. It wasn't in his nature to bend to another's will, so he could identify with her difficulty in obeying him. He could see her weighing up her options, as he had witnessed her do now on many occasions, already knew she would acquiesce. Her survival instincts were too well honed not to balance the potential physical harm against such a small token of rebellion. She let out an exasperated growl, the self-conscious glance around her immediately after let him know it was unintentional and that she was angry with herself for letting it slip. Raising her chin in grim determination was becoming a familiar sight, and some small part of Tristan felt comforted by the action. He was in no mood to entertain the reasons why.

Eyes trained forward, she attempted to kick first one, then the other, foot out of the stirrups. Her right foot had slipped too far into the metal ring and she was having difficulty shaking it free. Dagonet, helpful to a fault, took one step towards her to assist, but was stopped immediately by the look the girl must have given him as her head shot around in his direction. Tristan was not privy to her expression, but Dagonet held up his hands in mock surrender and stepped back once more, throwing Tristan a curious look. The Woad shook her right foot furiously once more, finally succeeding in freeing it.

She swung her right leg over Saratos's neck, wincing as her body doubled over, reminding Tristan of her wounded stomach, scooting her body around in the process. Saratos was not the tallest horse in the fort by a long shot, but it was still a long way down. Rope still in hand, Tristan took a step back in invitation to the girl who was gathering her resolve to dismount, she spared him a poisonous glance for his trouble before considering the ground in a calculating fashion. With one large inhale of breath she slid herself off of the smooth leather, feet connecting with the earth once more. Tristan watched with apprehension as her knees gave out beneath her and her body pitched forward. Her eyes shut tight and her faced scrunched up, anticipating the impact with the ground that she was unable to brace herself against.

Tristan knew immediately that there was nothing he could do to help her from where he was standing but it was with some foreboding that he watched as a pair of darkly clad arms encircle the girl and broke her fall.

Lancelot grinned down at the wildling in his arms as her eyes opened wide in surprise.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9.

Sarmatians.

Of all the bloody scum that could have come close to Calum, it had to be a thrice damned Sarmatian Knight. Kyla may have fancied her chances going up against a regular Roman officer, perhaps even odds of getting out alive, but the outcome of a one on one fight against a Sarmatian Knight was never going to be in her favour. Kyla knew that had she had this bit of information before her attack it would have made no difference to her subsequent actions. She had no choice but to gain his attention and distract him long enough to give Calum the time he needed to hide or get away.

Kyla had been too distracted by the surrounding Romans at the small fort for the title to have sunk in properly, but once it did her blood had run cold and it had felt like her stomach had dropped right out of her body. She was dealing with a different breed of warrior than previously supposed. She'd grown up hearing the same stories all Pictish children heard at night of the big, bad Sarmatians across the Wall. Their fighting prowess was well known, few who engaged them in combat lived to tell the tale, and talk of their bravery went uncontested. The stories ranged from one extreme to the other; they were demons bred on blood and pain; they flayed the skin off their enemies while still alive; they were blessed by the gods and all who raised their arms against them would fall; they could be pierced ten times by a blade and still would not die. Kyla had the sense to know that these tales were told more as a form of entertainment than a source of factual information. There were certainly a greater number of Knights when she was a child than there reportedly were now so they were clearly not immortal, but it was still unsettling to find herself at the mercy of one.

At his mercy she surely was. Kyla was in no state to put up a fight now, she hadn't been for quite some time. It took the last of her energy just to stay on top of the horse who's every step seemed an attempt to unseat her. She could feel the muscles in her thighs and calves aching. When their destination came into sight it filled her with equal amounts of relief and apprehension. The previous fort was not a patch on the stronghold before them. As tall as the Wall itself, it took up a vast space judging by the points of light atop the perimeter. Kyla couldn't begin to imagine how many people lived behind its vast walls and what her fate would be upon entry.

The Roman, no, _Sarmatian _slowed down to a walk as they passed a hill covered in small grassy tussocks with smoke rising languidly skywards, just visible. Kyla wondered how many Knights were counted amongst the dead and swore that she'd try and put another in the ground if she had the chance. The cry of a hawk distracted her from dwelling too long on the subject and brought her focus back to the double entranceway looming before them. A call had gone up from above the gates that now slowly opened at their approached. Kyla was afforded her first look inside the immense fortification. The guards waving them through appeared a lot more agreeable towards the Sarmatian than the last crowd had, though she was not afforded the same welcome.

She looked behind her wistfully as the gates were shut once more, a sliver of the beckoning landscape becoming smaller and smaller until is was no more. She doubted that she'd live past the night, but there was a sense of finality with the closing of those gates, like a trap snapping shut. Kyla felt her chest constrict and tighten with rising panic. As she looked forward once more she caught the eyes of her captor. The continuous train of thought she'd had since waking up bound and, most inexplicably, still alive ran through her mind. Just what did he have in store for her?

She was led past a smaller, central fortification surrounded with iron bars, with roofs of overlapping tiles supported by impossibly slim pillars of stone and she supposed that it was the residence of someone of importance. Surrounding this building where the smaller yet still impressive dwellings and trading stalls of the townsfolk. Evenly spaced out in straight lines on either side of where the traffic flowed, they were a world apart from Kyla's more humble village lodgings. The whole place made her feel vaguely trapped and enclosed, like the walls were too high and the air too thin.

It couldn't escape her notice that her presence was the cause of many a door to slam shut, accompanied by a muttered word and deadly look. Other townsfolk openly stared at her, mouths agape, too surprised by her presence to react. Kyla resisted the urge to growl and snap her teeth at them like the savage they assumed her to be. She eyed them angrily, noting that other than an abundance of clothing and some shorter hairstyles they still looked like Britons to her. She wondered what they would look like painted head to toe in the dye from the woad plant her people favoured in battle and it almost raised a smile to her lips. Then she recalled the whispered stories of the entertaining arenas that the Romans were so fond of and whether these people were wondering what she would look like painted head to toe in her own blood.

It was not long before she heard the sounds of revelry drifting on the air from a location ahead of them, the brighter concentration of fires and lamps illuminating the area like a beacon. Kyla shuddered at the comparison of herself to a moth drawn closer to the flame. Her heart rate picked up steadily as they approached the crowd of people eagerly guzzling down tankards of alcohol and plates of food, an air of debauchery permeating the atmosphere. Within seconds one man had spotted them and cried out in greeting with obvious joy on his face, getting to his feet earnestly. He looked to be not much older than Kyla and had a short beard and dark hair. His call garnered most of the peoples attention in the tavern courtyard and other robust men called out in acknowledgement of their arrival. Was she the lamb to the slaughter, the evenings entertainment that they had been waiting for? She reconsidered when eyes turned to her in confusion. Apparently they were just as baffled by her presence as she was. It occurred to her as she surveyed the scene that what the men were calling out was a name.

"_Drosten_?" she thought, looking at the back of her captor's head. She rolled the name around in her mind, struggling to humanise the man so that he ceased to be the 'Roman', or the 'Sarmatian', the ambiguous entity who had taken her. Drosten was a Pictish name however and it left Kyla feeling somewhat unsettled.

"Tristan...?" a well built man with long, dirty blonde hair called out, lilting the name into a question, clearly perplexed.

'Tris_tan_' she clarified, picking up on the inflection and difference in the plosive sounds. It was similar, but distinct enough that it sounded slightly alien to her. She wasn't sure why that made her feel better, perhaps she wanted there to be no blurring the lines between 'us' and 'them'. A few of 'them' were moving slowly towards her and Kyla's eyes rapidly moved between the approaching warriors, taking in their appearance, their weapons, their expressions, looking for any hint of what they were about to do.

There were five of them in total, all dressed similarly to 'Tristan' leaving Kyla to deduce that they were the other famed Sarmatian Knights. This thought made her heart beat faster still as the tallest of the Knights came closer yet. His head was shaved close to the scalp and there was one long scar running down his cheek from his left eye. He spoke directly to Tristan, his eyes taking note of his injuries, before elevating them to her appraisingly. Kyla should have felt more intimidated under the large man's scrutiny but she felt like his look was clinical and assessing, unlike the nefarious looks she'd gleaned from the soldiers at the previous fort.

"Superficial wounds, already dressed" came Tristan's gruff reply to the taller man's verbal enquiry about her. Kyla felt like a spell had been shattered that had hung between them upon hearing his voice for the first time. It had seemed like an age since they had drawn blades against each other in the forest. With the revelation of his name, and hearing him speak, Kyla realised that she had been viewing him as some sort of phantom, instead of the man of flesh and blood that he actually was. His voice was low, quiet but clear, and she could detect a flavour to his accent that she hadn't identified from the taller man which she found curious.

A dark Knight, clothing black as the hair on his head, caught her full attention as he began circling in an arc behind the horse. Kyla wondered if it was a ploy to spilt her concentration from the group. There was definitely a heat in his gaze that let her know that he appreciated what he was looking at which made Kyla's body tense all over. The uncomfortable flow of adrenaline increased her sense of unease once more as she took in the gist of what he was implying about Tristan's intentions towards her. She felt like his tone was teasing, but was unsure if it was directed at her.

Kyla whipped her head around quickly as the loud grumblings of a stocky Knight, inebriated beyond speaking coherently clasped Tristan roughly on the shoulder, making a declaration of happiness that the scout was home before staggering back in the direction of a flame haired woman.

The fair haired Knight spoke up again, requiring an explanation. Kyla held her breath without realising it. She stared intently at the back of Tristan's head, willing him to answer.

"She came upon me while I was scouting and attacked."

Once again, a short, clipped answer. This comment clearly was as unsatisfying to the Knight as it was to her, going by his expression. It seemed he was a man of few words which frustrated her no end. Tristan turned around to finally make eye contact with her once more. His brown eyes were dark and angry with more expression in them than she'd witnessed thus far and she returned his gaze with equal venom, though every shift and movement from the surrounding Knights continued to split her attention away from him. When he had her attention he inclined his head to the ground on her left and back to her once more. Kyla felt her grip tighten on the beast's mane once again as she took in his meaning, cursing the man with her thoughts.

False as the feeling was, she felt safer astride the massive horse. She did not want to be on the same level as five of the most intimidating men she had ever set eyes upon, men who her people told stories about around the fire on a cold Winters night to scare young children. She gritted her teeth and continued to look down her nose at her captor, daring him to make her.

As ever, she could read nothing more of his expression, but his actions were clear as melting ice. As he moved to her left, Kyla shifted her weight into the right stirrup, waiting for him to get close enough that she could kick out at his face, but he stayed just out of reach. He plucked up the rope that tethered her to the animal, needlessly reminding her of her bindings and the power he held in his hands. If Kyla had the ability to incinerate with a look Tristan would have gone up in flames. She had never despised someone so much that her entire body shook with the emotion before. Teeth clench and brow creased in a frown, Kyla tore her eyes away from the infuriatingly patient warrior, staring sightlessly at the horses mane once more, hands clenched painfully as she composed herself. She desperately wanted to disobey, just for the sake of it. Kyla gave serious consideration to making a stand here and now, Gods be damned. She had waited this long for a 'better' opportunity to escape and he hadn't given her one inch. She wondered if a quick death now would be preferable to whatever lay ahead, hopes of escape long past. She already knew that she would do as he bid but it galled her to admit it. Her frustration trickled out in the form of a growl before she could check herself.

Kyla took a deep breath, deciding she would deal with whatever came next as it happened. Eyes straight forward once more, she straightened her back and tossed her dark hair from her eyes. She kicked out her left foot to shake it free of the stirrup. Discouragingly her right heel had slipped too far in to the ring and would not shift. Kyla shot daggers at the tall Knight as he moved forward, apparently offering to assist. He caught her look and stopped short, hands in the air and stepped back once more. Kyla crushed down the feelings of embarrassment that threatened to overwhelm her as she finally freed her foot. She took a second to consider her next move before resolutely throwing her right leg over the horses neck. She attempted to hide the pain this caused her wounded stomach but she imagined she was unsuccessful.

She eyed the ground anxiously, it seemed like a long way down from where she was perched. She had already experienced how compromised her balance was from not being able to use her arms and hoped that she could land just right. Tristan took a step back to give her more space which incurred a particularly venomous look from her. How considerate of the bastard.

There was nothing for it, she either got down off the horse herself, or was 'assisted' down. Kyla took a deep breath and angled her hips forward slightly, causing her to slide off of the smooth leather. Her feet touched earth, and for a second she felt triumphant. In dismay she realised that her legs were no longer under her control and could feel them give way beneath her. With no chance to brace her fall, Kyla was certain that she was heading straight to kiss the dirt and scrunched her face tight in anticipation.

The expected collision never came to pass as Kyla inexplicably found herself caught tight in a steadying embrace. Her eyes shot open in shock at the unforeseen contact, taking in the grinning, well groomed face of the dark Knight who's eyes sparkled with mirth. Kyla was momentarily stupefied at the situation and the proximity of the stranger. It contrasted so sharply with the distance, she now acknowledged, that the scout had kept her at this whole time.

"Careful" he crooned smoothly, smirking down at her in amusement. Kyla gasped quietly, panic settling in her stomach as she gathered her feet under her once more, uncomfortably aware that her bound hands were crushed between them far too close to an area of the Knight's body she did not wish them to be near.

"Easy now" he said, clearly entertained by the situation but keeping a steadying grip on the girl as she tried to pull away.

Kyla's head cleared instantly. What use were her hours of training if she was so easily intimidated and so slow to react. Her expression became dark and focused immediately. She saw the Knight realise a second too late that she was about to act.

"Lancelot!", came a warning shout from behind her as she reached for the dagger at his hip within easy reach. Grasping the handle with both hands she used her shoulder to shove him back as she freed the blade from it's sheath while he stumbled off balance. Kyla raised the blade as high as she could, with murder singing in her heart. She launched herself forward aiming for his gut, when a sharp tug on her wrists spun her around sharply in the opposite direction. She couldn't help but cry out in frustration.

For the second time that day Kyla felt the cold blade of the scout's sword at her exposed throat, forcing her to reach her head back uncomfortably to avoid it. His other hand held the rope taut between them. Her bound wrists meant she could neither slash upwards, nor forwards. He had her at his mercy once more. Kyla's grip refused to loosen on the dagger as their eyes met.

She honestly didn't know how many more times she had it in her to back down, to stop fighting and give in. She felt like every time that she did she was betraying herself on some level. Her pride certainly was taking some beating. The scout just watched her with his fathomless dark eyes, waiting for her to react. She felt utterly lost.

Without dropping his gaze Kyla leaned her head slowly forward once more, knowing that he would never retreat before her. She felt the sharpness of the blade as it came into contact with her skin once more.

Kyla could not see any other way out. She would die at his hands eventually, was it not better to be done with it now before whatever they had planned for her? This way at least she had some control in how she died. She leaned her body in closer still, feeling the warm trickle of blood trail down her neck and over her collarbone as the blade bit into her deeper.

And still he watched her, still he waited, offering her the choice, his eyes a dark storm in an otherwise blank face. Her vision blurred slightly with tears she refused to shed. She felt exposed and she hated that he was witnessing it. It seemed like an eternity past with nothing existing outside of the two of them before Kyla finally turned her head to one side, breaking their locked gaze and removing the immediate threat of the blade from her throat. She didn't have it in her to consciously take her own life, even if it was through the subsequent actions of someone else. Tristan didn't move until she reluctantly let the dagger fall slowly from her fingers.

Kyla felt like she had stepped back from the edge of a precipice. She had seen death in Tristan's eyes, but it was not a cold, vast nothingness. There was a heat there, a fire that could consume and destroy. Tristan had returned his sword to the sheath on his back, years of practise making the movement smooth and precise.

Kyla finally took note of the other Knights that had drifted closer to them during their altercation. As she willed herself to return each man's stare she could see see there was a slight difference in how they viewed her now, a new sense of appreciation perhaps? A modicum of wariness or respect? Or just like a dog that had done an interesting trick.

Tristan turned to the tall Knight who was closest to him, handing over the rope into the larger man's hands as he returned to the horse's saddle to work loose the other end. Kyla felt the towering man's eyes drop down to assess the wound on her neck, while simultaneously appraising her other injuries upon closer inspection. She kept her damnable chin high in a faux sense of challenge and when his eyes reached hers again she was surprised that there was a hint of kindness to them. Kyla was prepared to be beaten, to be mocked and ridiculed, but not that. It made her uneasy so she broke away first.

Kyla watched as the black Knight retrieved the dagger that had dropped blade first into the dirt, noting that many of other Knights were now grinning at him.

"Dirt washes off easier than blood, eh Lancelot?" beamed the Knight who had first spotted Kyla and Tristan, evidently delighted that she had almost gutted his brother.

"Here I thought that no woman could resist your charms?" added the fair haired Knight, clapping Lancelot good naturedly on the back.

"Yes, well, clearly she's just a blue demon in the guise of a woman come to tempt me, I believe my record goes untarnished" replied Lancelot, arching one dark eyebrow in her direction as he returned the blade to it's sheath, taking the abuse light heartedly.

Kyla was completely baffled by all of their reactions. This 'Lancelot' appeared to hold no ill will towards her for her actions, nor did the other Knights. Clearly she was in the 'dog doing an interesting trick' category.

"Galahad, could you see to Saratos" Tristan interrupted, the mood became subdued once more.

"Of course" the younger Knight replied, immediately heading to take the reins of the dappled stallion. "It's good to have you back Tris" he called as he headed off in the direction of what Kyla assumed where the stables.

"I'll let Arthur know that you've returned," smirked the man Kyla now knew as Lancelot , "and that you've brought home a...surprise." Her stomach turned slightly at the wink he threw her. The mention of their celebrated leader doing nothing to set her at ease.

"She's all yours Tristan" he proclaimed as he stepped away in the direction they had come from. Kyla chased away the implications of his closing statement once more, surreptitiously glancing at Tristan to see if he would react, which he didn't.

"Well it looks like Bors needs help drinking that flagon and what sort of friend would I be if I didn't lend him a hand. Looking forward to having you fill in the blanks later Tristan" said the fair haired Knight jovially, pointedly glancing at Kyla before turning to the crowded tavern who's occupants had slowly returned their attention back to the task of drinking to oblivion. As the Knights left one by one, Kyla's heightened senses began to dull once more, the stores of adrenaline finally spent. At her strongest she couldn't fight off one Knight, let alone two but Kyla felt resigned to whatever fate had in store for her. She just felt like a shell of herself.

"Dag?" Tristan asked the remaining Knight, a loaded question that Kyla couldn't decipher. Whatever was implied, the tall man nodded his acceptance, handing the rope back over. Tristan shot a warning look to Kyla, a look she was becoming quickly tired of seeing that communicated clearly that she was not to try anything. Kyla didn't know if she could any more, even if she had wanted to.

**A/N – I'm still alive, still mulling over this story in the back of my mind though I've been extremely busy this year, including moving house at one point. I have very little free time so writing is a luxury for me but one I keep coming back to and this story hasn't been abandoned.**

**Many thanks for the continued support, (one recent prompt to update was what spurned me back to finishing this chapter) and apologies that I didn't get to reply personally to the reviews form the last chapter.**

**This was a long one, and although the plot hasn't moved forward much since the last chapter I felt like I couldn't ignore Kyla's perspective on getting to Badon Hill and seeing the rest of the Knights for herself. I hope you enjoyed and ,as ever, reviews are most welcome and help encourage me to continue on.**


	10. Chapter 10

**The Woad in the Woods**

**Chapter 10**

Tristan didn't need to see what direction Dagonet was heading. Jols had living quarters situated next to the Knights' and if anyone in the fort knew how to patch someone back up it was him, having had the dubious honour of tending to any and every injury the collective had incurred through the long years. He was the ever present anchor that was there to see the knights off on every mission, the first one to welcome them home when they returned and the one who saw to the bodies of the recently deceased, preparing them for their journey into the afterlife. Tristan doubted his own healing abilities and was keen to have the girl seen to.

There was no need to explain this to Dagonet. The large man had a knack for anticipating the needs of others, being naturally observant there was little that he missed. Of all of his brothers Dagonet was the one where verbal communication was needed least, which Tristan had a healthy respect for. He knew that, more than likely, he himself would be ambushed by the two to have his own wounds tended to upon their return.

Tristan made his way to a section of the fort where the regular infantry were stationed. The holding cells would do to accommodate the girl until he had time to figure out what was to be done with her, at the very least she could be questioned in regards to the attacks. He recalled the moment that he had seen her fumbled landing, right into the waiting arms of Lancelot. His mind had warred between relief that she had been spared the harmful descent and some emotion, he hesitated to label it 'anger', that he had not been the one to break her fall.

Was he becoming possessive of the girl, in such a short time? He quietly reasoned that he had brought her here, thus the responsibility of dealing with her fell to him. Yes, that seemed a satisfactory explanation.

Past experience had him analysing her movements immediately, anticipating her intentions as her body had frozen in Lancelot's arms. His warning call had been too late for Lancelot to react to but he still had the means of controlling her in is grasp. He hadn't hesitated to draw his sword whilst using the rope to throw off her momentum.

Some men beat a young horse into submission to break them, a battle of dominance resulting in the animal becoming a servant, a 'tool' to command and use. Tristan had always favoured the slower, trust building approach common in his home village. Though more time consuming, it resulted in a more symbiotic bond between the two and a healthier level of respect.

The Woad was being as stubborn as a mountain goat. He wanted her to stop fighting him so that he could stop forcing her into submission, and yet she would not be the fiery, calculating character he was beginning to identify her as if she did. Unknowingly she had tested his resolve. Tristan recalled the moment she had leaned into his sharp blade and he'd seen the torment in her eyes, unsure if she would force his hand. It had felt like fate had hung in the balance as he waited for her next move. An exterior show of calm masked the sense of relief that had flooded him when she had bowed down once more. He had stayed his hand before, would he have done it a second time, surrounded by his brothers? He was glad he didn't have to find out.

As they approached the holding cells curious eyes turned in their direction. The infantry mess hall was where the garrison relaxed and socialised after their duties, when not heading to the tavern. As Tristan, with girl in tow, passed by the off duty men they piqued the interest of a fair few. Tristan decided he was thoroughly sick of being the centre of attention as he stood to one side of the doorway of the prison for the girl to pass through. She did so placidly, green eyes trained ahead in a dull, unfocused fashion. 'Resigned', that was one description for her expression. Though Tristan preferred her to acquiesce, worry blossomed in the pit of his stomach.

The cell itself was a sparse room, roughly eight foot by ten, with two slivers of openings serving as windows on the back wall, barely allowing any outside illumination into the dark interior. There was a low wooden cot, covered over with hay that was well past being fresh, and one scratchy woollen blanket. A small wooden bucket served as a toilet, thankfully empty. The only only other addition to the room were the two heavy metal rings set high up on one wall.

As the Pict stood passively in the centre of the room facing the cot, Tristan observed her momentarily before entering. He pulled on the rope gently, succeeding in coercing her to turn to face him. She refused to look at him though, grimly focusing on the door-frame behind him, her chin still high. He slowly walked towards her, confident in the knowledge that he could easily subdue her but watching her movements none the less for tell tale signs she would resist. Her body was tense, all her tired muscles wound tight, but she didn't move. When Tristan was before her he slowly reached out to undo the knot that kept her bound wrists leashed close to her waist. Making sure not to make actual physical contact he slowly worked the knot loose. The foremost part of Tristan's mind was calculating and weighing the possibilities of her every minuscule movement, but in the background he was absently absorbing other details about the girl. The way her breathing accelerated in fear when he had reached for the knot; how she smelled of horse and sweat and the forest itself; how small she was compared to him.

Once the the knot around her waist was free Tristan stepped back immediately, being so near in the dark felt too...intimate. Keeping one eye on the Pict he took the end of the rope and looped it through both rings attached to the wall. The only movement the girl made was to turn her head slightly to the right, to watch him through her peripheral vision. As the rope began to grow taut he slowly applied the pressure so as not to catch her unawares. She offered no resistance as she was slowly compelled closer to the wall, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. Once there was no slack between her bound wrists, now high above her head, and the the rings, Tristan secured the loose end to the one furthest from her. Though her head didn't move he could tell she still noted his actions from the corner of her eye.

Tristan leaned one shoulder against the door-frame and looked at her openly, not the furtive glances he had been throwing her way. She looked dishevelled, her curling dark hair falling in front of her eyes much as his was wont to do. Her posture had slumped minutely, taking an inch off of her relatively petite stature, and a certain sense of defeat hung in the air around her. Perhaps the fight had finally left her? Tristan knew fine well that his blatant observation was a form of baiting, but he couldn't help himself. Where had the stubborn defiance gone to? He found himself willing her to look his way, anger fuelled or not, but the damnable woman kept her eyes forward on the blank wall, effectively ignoring him. The silent battle of wills was disrupted by the arrival of Jols and Dagonet.

"Tristan" Jols greeted him quietly with a smile that displayed the relief he felt at seeing his friend's safe return. Tristan couldn't help but let a small smile play on his lips in return, albeit short lived. His momentary lapse of stoicism seemed to amuse Dagonet.

"Dagonet informed me about our...guest" Jols got straight to the point, looking behind Tristan further into the dark room. Tristan stood to one side as Jols took a flaming torch from the exterior and placed it into the free sconce on the opposite wall to where Kyla was restrained. As Dagonet joined them, the room began to feel a little crowded and Tristan noted that the girl was losing her attempt at nonchalance.

The Woad's eyes followed Jols as he placed a leather bag on to the cot and began removing a water skin and various earthenware pots, each identifiable by the different ways they had been stoppered. Some had variations of coloured wax, others had twine wrapped around them in differing woven patterns or knots. Once Jols had his ointments, salves and bundle of bandaging material in order he turned to the girl, craning his head slightly to asses her blood stained front, whilst walking slowly to her left side. Her head whipped around to keep him in her sights.

Jols held his hands in front of him, palms forward in as non threatening a fashion as he could manage. He had her full attention. While still a few feet away, he pointed to her wounded left arm before returning his hands to the same position. The Pict looked equally confused and mistrustful, her sharp green eyes boring into Jols' in an attempt to interpret his actions and the motivation behind them, before briefly searching Tristan's face for an answer that was not forthcoming. Jols once again pointed slowly to the injured arm, currently raised close to her face, before once again raising both hands to her in supplication. Her eyes followed his movements, glanced quickly at the wound, before finding Jols again. The Woad gave no indication of consent, nor understanding, just continued to focus intently on Jols.

He took a slow and deliberate step towards her. Tristan moved minutely in the doorway, making himself ready to act if the need arose, which earned him a wary glance from the girl. Jols paused, giving her time to adjust to his proximity, before taking another step closer. Now within range he haltingly reached for the dressing around her arm, taking care to keep eye contact. The Pict craned her neck back slightly as his hands neared her face. Trusting she would not fight if he took a slow methodical approach, Jols began to unwrap the bandage that Tristan had hastily secured.

Tristan was diligent as Jols relaxed stance informed him that he had gone into 'healer' mode, no longer focusing on the girl but the wounded arm that needed attending. She obligingly lifted her arm out towards him as she watched his deft hands releasing the soiled, blood stained wrapping. She bared her teeth slightly, but otherwise remained still as he probed appraisingly around the damaged area.

'Dagonet?' Without another word, Dagonet reached for the water skin and one small scrap of clean material and handed them to Jols under the watchful eye of the bound girl. He liberally poured water over the affected area, cleaning away what blood had crusted on her arm and gently wiped the area clean, receiving a small hiss in response. Tristan was surprised that she was tolerating the attention.

Handing the skin and cloth back to Dagonet he directed the tall man to one of the pots on the bed, quickly breaking the seal before applying it generously to the slashed skin. Tristan detected a hint of fascination in the girl's guarded expression as she watched the man tend to her. She frequently noted Dagonet and Tristan's position in the room with fleeting glances but otherwise her attention belonged to Jols. He quickly dressed the wound up again before giving Kyla a small reassuring smile. He nodded towards her stomach, indicating his intentions to look at the wound there. There was a long moment of stillness before Tristan barely noticed the slightest bob of her head that gave Jols the permission he needed. He began to gingerly and patiently unwrap the length of material across her abdomen and around her back, passing the cloth from hand to hand as his arms carefully encircled her waist without touching her.

The Pict took a large breath that she held in, making her chest expand but her stomach as small as possible, elbows high, and froze on the spot. She stared resolutely ahead of her until Jols had completed his task before letting out her breath again.

"Em..." Jols did a small swirling motion with one finger to indicate that the she should turn around to face him more. Her mouth dropped open slightly, her eyes a little wider, before she snapped it shut once more. She twisted her body slightly, exposing more of her stomach, but as Jols reached to lift back a section of her tunic she abruptly turned to the wall again, hiding her stomach from his questing hands. Tristan immediately took a step into the room at her sudden movement but stopped short as Jols held up a hand towards him, while still looking at the girl.

_'You don't know just how resourceful she could be'_, Tristan thought, the incident with Lancelot clear in his mind, but he took heed of the request. Jols had managed well on his own so far.

"Please..." Jols entreated quietly, his hands held aloft once more in question. Tristan was at the unwelcome end of her poisonous glare anew before she shut her eyes and turned her hips towards Jols. He made short work of assessing and dressing her stomach whilst trying to ignore her sharp intakes of breath, sensing speed was essential in this instance. Tristan's eyes rested on her face, as she kept hers unwaveringly on the wall until Jols had finished. As he straightened, he circled to her right side to look at her most recently acquired injury.

Tristan felt his right hand contract slightly as Jols very gently, and very briefly, set his fingers along the Woad's jawline, causing her head to jerk back from him in response, baring her neck to his administrations. The modest touch had Tristan feeling uncomfortable again, his insides roiling with an unknown emotion he couldn't fathom. His index finger and thumb rubbed together absently as he fought not to frown. Tristan was a master of his emotions and he'd trained long and hard so that his body obeyed his every command. What was it about this slip of a girl that threw him off balance? As Jols wiped her neck clean of the blood Tristan had spilled, her eyes found his, accusing, resentful and bitter. Tristan was on the verge of tearing his eyes away from hers just as Jols ceased his ministrations and she straightened her head once more. He had been so close to backing down, that in itself was an unsettling thought. What had gotten into him?

Jols nodded at the subdued girl once before gathering his assorted bit and pieces back into his leather bag and making his way out of the cell with Dagonet. Tristan began to loosen the end of the rope from the second ring, pulling the rope through the circlet with a dry rasping sound. The girl's hands dropped instantly to hip level and she took the opportunity to retreat from him a step, eyes flickering to the doorway the other men had left through. Tristan pulled the rope through the last ring and, taking the loose end, threaded through the small rectangular opening in the centre of the heavy door. As he stepped through the doorframe he heard his name being called. Tristan paused, gaze coming to rest on Galahad who was briskly coming towards them, a bowl carefully cradled between his hands.

"Vanora would have my head if I didn't deliver this" he said jokingly, and yet entirely serious. "She said it'd been a long time since any of us '_vagabonds' _had brought her such a tasty looking pair of rabbits and that I was to deliver this post haste to the...well" Galahad gestured to the cell with the bowl of hot lamb stew. Tristan assumed that the fact the rabbits hadn't met their demise at the end of one of his arrows was how they had deduced who the successful hunter was.

Before Tristan could respond, Jols had jumped into action, rummaging through his satchel and producing the water skin, now half empty. "Best leave this here too" he supplied, holding the skin aloft momentarily before passing it to Tristan. Galahad ducked in through the door and placed the bowl down in the corner opposite where the bucket lived, sparing a quick grin for the girl hovering near the cot. Tristan gave him a humourless look as he nipped quickly out again.

Tristan looked inside the cell one last time, taking in the confused and angry visage of the wildling woman once more, before tossing the skin to thump solidly and rest beside the bowl of steaming food. He shut the door closed firmly and with perhaps a little more gusto than was strictly need. Tristan's entire being felt unsettled, like he wasn't comfortable in his own skin, and in closing the door on the girl he hoped to shut out the effect she had on him. He dropped the heavy crossbar into it's cradle across the entry with a satisfying '_thunk'_, securing it with a latch. Aware of his audience Tristan refrained from taking the small moment he wanted to regain his equilibrium. Plenty of time to do that in the solitude of his own room.

Determined, Tristan retrieved the section of rope he had passed through the narrow food hatch, a small opening large enough for a bowl to pass, and began to pull the rest of the slack through. The resistance he felt almost brought a smile to his face. He persistently drew the Pict closer to the opposite side of the door, noting a certain amount struggle, but it felt half hearted. He succeed in drawing the girl's wrists through the opening and quickly latched onto the section that bound them together.

His large hands made hers seem dainty and fragile, and to think she had drawn a blade on him! The skin was stretched white over her knuckles and her nails bit into the palms of her hands as he worked the knot loose. When her hands were finally free she snatched them back inside the cell, quicker than an adder, but not before Tristan caught sight of the angry marks that circled her wrists. Just another injury he had caused to add to the list. Tristan was unused to deliberately hurting people. He offered death swiftly, not painlessly, but those who found themselves at the end of his sword never suffered for long. Tristan started to wonder if what he really needed more than sleep right now was a stiff drink.

He turned to leave and was confronted with two fairly bemused brothers, and one severe looking 'healer'.

"You're not going anywhere until I've had a proper look at you" Jols warned.

**A/N Hopefully you'll all enjoy this latest chapter, it's hard to write any sort of vulnerability into Tristan's character! Still extremely busy so will be another long delay for the next chapter, but I'm still here and not giving up just yet!**

**Thank you once again to everyone following this story and for taking the time to review. It's always encouraging and I love to hear your thoughts! I try to respond in person to those with accounts who review as much as possible (sometimes I do get swamped with work) but would also like to thank the guest reviewers as well, you've been a veritable cheering squad! (you know who you are =) )**

**Until next time!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N – Finally, another chapter! I've properly mapped out where I want this story to go for the first time, and if I follow through it means I'm only about a third of the way complete – phew! Didn't know what I was setting myself up for when I started writing this. Thank you, as ever, for every fav, follow and review. I'd have less motivation for doing this if it was purely for my own entertainment (though that's the reason I started it, of course). I have a lot of the next chapter already written, so please do leave your reviews and show me some love ;) **

**All constructive feedback very welcome. This fic has no beta, so apologies for any grammatical/spelling errors.**

The Woad in the Woods

Chapter 11

Kyla snatched her hands back through the hatch as soon as she was able, the memory of the Scout's touch ghosting on her skin. She could feel how chaffed her wrists were as she clutched them to her chest but didn't spare them a glance. Kyla's eyes were focused on the door, her ears straining to make out the mumbled conversation that had begun once the crossbar had been dropped with a definitive thud, sealing her in. She kept moving backwards until her calves bumped up against the low cot and tried very hard to stop her mouth from watering as the smell of hot stewed meat and vegetables enveloped the small cell. Ignoring the complaints of her body that vied for her attention, she stood stock still and concentrated on what was happening outside.

Kyla could only make out a few words but deduced that the tall knight, Dagonet, and the healer were convincing Tristan to have his wounds tended to, disappointingly minor though they were. She could see nothing through the gap in the door and eventually the voices became fainter as the conversation moved away. Kyla held still for what seemed like an age before she finally let her legs give way beneath her to sit on the cot. She stared blankly at her cell door, confused and still very much alive.

When her attack on the dark knight..._Lancelot, _Kyla corrected, had failed she had decided that there was no time to waste energy on what 'could' happen to her and endeavoured to deal with situations as they appeared. She knew that her death wish would be granted soon enough. When the time arrived she would do everything in her last miserable moments to speed it along, and hopefully leave a suitably gruesome reminder of her existence behind to those who had taken her. She may have been beat but Kyla knew she could muster the energy to push her thumb through a man's eye-socket, or crush a nose with her forehead should they get that close.

It would be a bonus to take at least one of them with her when the time came. How many of her people would live if she managed to fatally wound the Scout, she mused? She'd certainly be doing womankind a favour if she could send the dark knight kicking and screaming into the afterlife. The thought kept her focused.

So she had followed behind Tristan somewhat meekly. Her imagination had continued into overdrive as he lead her passed a multitude of Roman soldiers. It took great effort to remind herself that she had switched from from offence to defence and that she should not speculate, just deal with the here and now. Kyla had withdrawn inside of herself, resolving to accept the inevitable and play the waiting game. Calling it a 'game' made the situation seem less serious than it actually was.

Tristan had stood to one side of a doorway as she noted the heavy crossbar playing sentinel by the entrance. Eyes forward, she entered the dim room. Was this grim little den where she was to meet her end? The ceiling was low, the walls felt close and Kyla had to struggle to contain the constricting feeling in her chest that threatened to overwhelm her. She had never set foot in a room so small before. She had closed her eyes briefly and taken in a deep breath through her nose, blowing it out slowly. It had taken her a moment to regain control.

She thought of the living space she shared in her village with Calum, her Aunt Heather and Uncle Galanan, plus another family of five. They occupied a large round wattle and daub building comprising of just the one room. It had been her parents home too before they had died. There were still notches by the entrance where her father had documented her journey to the dizzying heights of five foot, five inches. Kyla had taken to continuing this tradition with Calum when he had come to live with them. He was taller now than she was at his age. It saddened her to realise she'd never know how tall he would grow to be.

She had had a second to regain her composure before being coerced into turning to face her captor by the gentle pull on her restraints. She refused to look at the Scout, hoping to emanate the disdain she felt for him. However, a Sarmatian Knight walking purposefully towards you in a dark cell is hard to ignore, try as one might. Her pride kept her eyes locked forward, but the rest of her traitorous body had not complied with her wishes. Kyla had tensed in preparation as the Scout reached for her. Her breathing accelerated, her hands clenched to fists.

"_Wait for it_" she admonished herself. _"Wait for it..."_

Kyla had no definitive idea of what she was expecting him to do, but when he deftly loosened the knot by her waist and stepped quickly away again it served to surprise her once more. She couldn't make head nor tail of what he intended to do with her. Did he view her as a plaything? Was this some form of passive torture meant to lull her into a sense of security? Setting aside the latest wound and the exhaustive trek he had not done much else to harm her, ample though the opportunities had been since they'd first crossed paths. Kyla studied his movements through her peripheral vision as he had threaded her rope through metal rings set high upon one wall. _Her_ rope. She found it amusing that in the midst of all of this that the damn inanimate piece of woven hemp had become like as extension of her own body.

She had felt the heavy weight of Tristan's eyes upon her after he had securely bound her against the wall. She could have turned to face him but she felt less exposed facing the wall. He had not moved for some moments but she was damned if she would look his way now. What reaction was he trying to get from her? If he wanted her attention he was out of luck, she kept her head as high as she could muster, stared resolutely at the wall and waited.

It was short moments before Dagonet and the healer had arrived.

Kyla had struggled with a rising panic as the room had become more crowded, feeling even more confined by the second. The enclosed, suffocating feeling that had tried to overwhelm her early resurfaced and it took some effort for her to regain what little control she had. She wasn't sure if she was grateful for the sudden illumination the torch light threw about the cell, comforting as it was she had wondered if she really wanted to see in detail what was going to happen to her.

Staring at the wall had not been an option any more, not when she was bound in a small room with three hoplessly intimidating men. Kyla had been ready for any number of possibilities, torture seeming the most probable, though to what end she still had no clue. As far as she had been concerned she was surrounded by enemies. Barbaric, plundering foreigners who needed no excuse to harm her or her people. So when the leather bundle that the third man had carried was unwrapped to display curious small pots, rolls of material and a water skin, and not the knives, blades and cutting implements she had presumed, she was left to wonder once more.

When the healer had approached her with slow precise movements and communicated his intentions to her she had been wary and baffled. Her quick glance towards the Scout was typically not forthcoming in information. Her legs had not been bound so when push came to shove Kyla was prepared to let loose with every ounce of her depleted energy to kick and thrash and hurt those around her. She could not comprehend that this man was here to tend to her injuries. She wondered what possible purpose would it serve to heal her? The idea of slavery blossomed in her mind. Was that to be her lot?

Kyla had held still and waited to see exactly what he would do, supervised by the hawk-eyed Scout. When she had shown no resistance he had got to work deftly on cleansing and rebinding her arm.

The man appeared kindly and gentle, though his pock-marked features, thrown into stark contrast by the flickering flames, unsettled her at first. He looked almost apologetic when he caused her to react in pain but did not relent in his task. Kyla had watched his every movement intensely. He was clearly knowledgeable in the healing arts. She had only experienced similar care and attention from Torra, the beloved elder from her home village. Kyla had wondered, if the two healers had met in another time and place, what secrets and methods they would have to share with one another. A fanciful thought.

Once he had finished with her arm and had made motions towards her injured stomach, Kyla had blanched. It was much harder to bare her midriff to his capable hands. Turning to face the three men was difficult, making her feel additionally exposed. She would not willingly participate in anything that would harm her and the healer reaching to raise her tunic had been too much at first. If he had not taken such care to move slowly and sympathetically in response to her reactions she knew her frayed nerves would have broken.

Kyla appreciated that he had worked fast. When he had reached towards her face, however, she instinctively moved it farther away. The anger and frustration she felt bubbled up inside her at the reminder of her latest wound and her eyes found those of the unperturbed Scout, nonchalantly leaning against the door frame. Watching her, always watching her.

To have them all finally leave felt like a blessing. When the young Knight, Galahad, had appeared laden down with food, and the healer had offered up his water skin, Kyla couldn't help but feel mistrustful. When Tristan had loudly closed the door and dragged her ever closer to the wooden barrier, only to finally release her wrists from their bindings, she felt additionally unsettled. Why was she still alive? Why had they patched her up instead of hurting her further? Her world was turned upside down with confusion and nothing made any sense.

Kyla felt the weight of the Scout's scrutiny even now, alone in a cell with the wafting smell of succulent meat floating about her. She was utterly exhausted, her eyes felt heavy, her body weak. She rallied herself and rose slowly to her feet, eyes still glued to the barricaded oaken door, and made her way cautiously towards temptation. A foot from the door, not daring to get too close, Kyla bent her knees and looked in the limited view of the small hatch for signs of persons on the other side. There were limits to what she could see, an expanse of pathway and the side wall of a military building, but currently no people. She stayed like that for some time, scrutinising the small window to the outside world, convinced at any moment that the door would be flung open. That there was some trap involved, but after a time the hunger got the better of her.

Kyla hurried to the where the bowl and water skin rested and scooped them up quickly before retreating to the cot. She paused once more, anticipating an interruption. When none arose she hastily brought the bowl to her lips. At the first taste of divine meat Kyla couldn't help but close her eyes, momentarily content. After savouring the first mouthful and noting the complimentary blend of herbs that infused the broth, Kyla made short work of finishing off the rest. Her eyes darted constantly towards the door but she was left blissfully undisturbed through the meal. The food sat heavily in her previously empty stomach but she felt much, much better and energised after eating her fill. She washed the whole thing down generously with water, after hesitantly sniffing the contents of the skin. If both had been laced with poison she was beyond caring.

Exhausted, but unable to keep still, Kyla got to her feet once more, pacing from one side of the small room to the other. She quickly examined her freshly bound injuries. Both had been done expertly and she was in no doubt that they would heal well. Her arm was a dull ache, but along her stomach the wound throbbed painfully, every movement causing a twinge across her abdomen, but it was entirely bearable. She examined her wrists, both circled in angry chafe marks like hideous ornaments.

Irritated and confused, she continued to pace. Keeping her body moving reflected the furious inner workings of her mind as she assessed her situation once more. Going on the reactions of the other Sarmatian Knights it seemed like her appearance at the fort was unexpected. Which meant that Tristan had not gone out looking for a prisoner, nor was he in the habit of bringing one back. Kyla recalled what he had said to the fair haired Knight:

"_She came upon me while I was scouting and attacked."_

So Kyla had the great misfortune to have crossed paths with the Scout, who had no business being anywhere in the vicinity of her village. Had he been heading there? Was he gleaning information for the Romans to formulate an attack? Calum should have long ago returned to the village to warn them. They would have to create a patrol and keep an eye on the wider area for further intrusions.

She still could not produce a viable explanation for why the Scout had not just killed her there and then. There was no love lost between Picts and Romans, regardless of Sarmatian lineage. Why go to the bother of dragging her to this gods forsaken fort? The implication of Tristan's intentions from the dark Knight, Lancelot, chilled her. Kyla had heard many tales of savage Roman attacks on lone Pict women they had encountered.

She recalled one particularly horrific account from a neighbouring settlement. When they had finally located the missing teenager abandoned in the woods she had been so horrendously beaten and abused that she was moments away from death. Torra had been sent for to help attend the girl, and it was only her care, attention and knowledge combined with that of their local herb woman that got the girl through that long first night and eventually on the road to recovery, though she would never be able to bear children.

If Tristan's attentions were as nefarious, surely he'd had plenty of opportunities to have had his way with her by now. It didn't add up.

Kyla's pondering was immediately interrupted when she caught sight of movement outside the door accompanied by hushed whispers. Two sets of brown eyes vied for dominance in the view finder that was the small hatch in the door. Kyla froze. From what little she could deduce they were Roman soldiers.

"Would you?" one man asked the other. Kyla was glued to the spot, her hands clenched tight into fists, unable to stop the anger she felt coursing through her body. Both pairs of eyes where lit with amusement. Kyla felt like she was on display for their entertainment and it sickened her.

"Too right! I bet she'd squirm like a weasel in the sack." came the reply, accompanied by deep laughter.

Kyla snapped. With an angry growl she reached for the only weapon to hand, the flaming torch, releasing it from it's cradle and thrusting it swiftly towards the small opening. Her actions were greeted with angry shouts as the soldiers quickly retreated from their viewing station.

"That fucking _bitch_!"

"I'll teach that savage her fucking place"

"Here, leave it. She's the Sarmatian's prisoner, they're not known for sharing. Not worth your bollocks being strung up"

"_Fine! _Best hope they don't tire of you too soon, Woad _scum_."

The last was accompanied by a glob of spit sailing into the cell, landing unceramoniously on the floor at Kyla's feet. She gripped the torch tightly, breathing rapidly as she listened to the sounds of feet moving away from her cell. Was she to be subjected to this all night?

At least it seemed being detained by a Sarmatian Knight meant that the rest of the Roman infantry may give her a wider berth. So she only had to deal with a handful of the toughest and most fearsome men in the fort. That should be a comfort, right?

Kyla eventually relaxed her stance once more, not physically able to keep her body on such high alert. Well, she speculated that if the soldiers couldn't see the interior of the cell they might be less inclined to come looking. Regrettably, but with determination, Kyla threw the torch to the ground, rolling it over in the dirt until it was completely extinguished.

She took the few steps it took to get back to the cot, reached down and flipped it onto it's side, letting the hay and blanket fall to cover the small section of flooring she had uncovered in the process.

Kyla grabbed the snuffed out torch once more, before clambering over her makeshift barrier. She redistributed the hay about her and threw the musty smelling blanket over her shoulders. Not comfortable with laying down outright, Kyla rested her shoulders against the stone wall, her legs bent slightly, hoping that it would be easier to get to her feet this way when they came for her once more. She gripped the wooden torch reassuringly with both hands. She was completely blocked from view of the door. Of course, that meant that she couldn't see the door either, but it was a small price to pay. She'd hear someone approach long before she would have seen them anyway. Kyla moved a little here and there trying to make the position less agitating to her wounds but was unsuccessful.

She really hadn't meant to fall asleep, but it seems her drained body gave her no other option.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Woad in the Woods**

**Chapter 12.**

Tristan had finally shook off Dagonet, Galahad and the ever persistent Jols. He had eventually been persuaded to stand still long enough for Jols to poke and prod at his injuries, finally announcing that Tristan would live. The bandages were hardly necessary but Tristan had submitted to his administrations as the lesser evil.

Galahad had assured him that Saratos had been brushed, fed and watered. Dagonet tried to persuade Tristan that he could do with the same attention but the knight had had his fill of company and in no uncertain terms refused. He brusquely requested that Jols locate an interpreter so he could question the girl in the morning. The others knew a losing battle when they saw one and subsequently left him to his own devices.

Tristan wanted nothing more than to get back to his room and divest himself of the events of the day. When Lancelot called his name he was tempted to engage in some selective hearing. Tristan gazed longingly at the Knights dwelling which only moments before had seemed so close. He paused and turned towards his approaching brother. So close, and yet so far.

Lancelot jogged good naturedly to catch up with him. Tristan schooled himself to appear disinterested.

"To bed already? Has that demon exhausted your considerable stamina so quickly? My, my, Tris, I thought you were made of more than that!" Lancelot smirked, slowing to a walk as he reached his brother. Before Tristan could form a retort, Lancelot waved off his reply.

"Just wanted to inform you that Arthur said to report to him in the morning. He's very, _very_ interested to hear what you have to say" he said, raising one dark eyebrow suggestively. Before Tristan could say anything, Lancelot clapped him amiably on the back.

"Do try to get some rest. You'll need your strength for round two. And remember, if you need any tips," he stepped away and bowed theatrically, "my door is always open."

Lancelot grinned and quickly made his escape in the direction of the tavern, not giving his angered brother time to respond.

Tristan determinedly continued on to his room. Anyone who happened upon him over the short distance gave the dour knight a wide berth. This in itself was quite normal for Tristan, but this evening the denizens of the fort seemed to scuttle away faster than was usual.

Tristan was seething. To let Lancelot rile him up like this, it was unheard of! How was the juvenile baiting of his tiresome brother managing to get under his skin? The damned man was revelling in his reactions too. Tristan knew there would be more of the same if he didn't get his emotions in check quickly. He marched down the open walkway past the rooms belonging to his fellow knights. When he reached his own personal space he slammed the door closed behind him, sealing out the rest of the world. If there had been someone around to witness it they would have been stunned by _any_ emotive display from the man, let alone what amounted to an all out tantrum by his standards.

Tristan leaned his back against the solid door behind him and closed his eyes. He worked some moments on controlling his breathing, deep and slow until he felt grounded once more. Wearily he opened his eyes, grateful to finally notice that Jols had lit the brazier and lamps in his ordered room, keeping the cold and the dark at bay. Tristan wondered where the man found the time.

He sluggishly pushed himself away from the door and headed towards the large floor-standing cross stationed near his bed. The irony of the two intersected pieces of wood also being the symbol for Arthur's 'God' was not lost on him. He had been raised in the beliefs of his own people, and though he did not actively pay tribute to those old world deities, he also did not hold faith with Arthur's 'Lord'.

Tristan undid the buckle of his sword belt, placing the worn yet sturdy scabbard carefully on his bed. Various other blades located on his person followed suit. With practised fingers he loosened the fastenings of his armoured jerkin, pulling it over his head, already feeling like he was shedding some of the day's tension in the process. Tristan draped the garment over the the waiting cross. He glanced over to the sister display that stood on the opposite side of the generous room. This one's service was already employed in supporting Tristan's full battle gear. The layered plates of leather and metal, the armoured gauntlets and shin guards. Crowning the display was the distinct winged helmet emblematic of his tribe. They were some of the only items he had retained from his journey across the empire, gifted to him by his village on the day he left in anticipation of the warrior he would grow to become.

Tristan liberated himself of the his woven tunic, being careful not to disturb his bandages, and sat heavily on his bed to be rid of his footwear. His tunic and breeches would need a good scrub to get rid of the blood, and a couple of stitches to mend them.

Habitually he reached for his sheathed sword and released the blade from it's home. His father's sword was a thing of great beauty. Simple and devastatingly effective in it's curved design. It was exquisitely balanced so it sat comfortably in his hands. Tristan watched the light from the oil lamps slide lazily across it's mirrored surface as he rotated it slightly between his fingers. He had been somewhat luckier than a number of his brothers fifteen years ago, his village had been forewarned of the Romans' approach.

The night before Tristan left home his mother had prepared his favourite meal of stewed beef. She had thought her glances towards the entrance of their dwelling were inconspicuous but Tristan knew she was hoping his father would appear back in time to join them. Resignedly they ate alone in silence and it was late into the night when he finally lay himself down to sleep. The fires had gone cold by the time Tristan was shaken to consciousness by the dark figure looming over his bed. Tristan could smell the alcohol that infused the air around the large man who didn't appear to be looking in his direction. A bundled package was thrust clumsily into his arms.

"Keep her sharp, boy". The words were a low rumble and only slightly slurred. Tristan felt the large callused hand of his father gently cradle the side of his face and in the dark their eyes finally met. He still doubted his own memory of unshed tears glistening in the chilled room. The moment didn't last however, as his father rose unsteadily to stumble over to his own sleeping platform where his patient wife slumbered on oblivious. Tristan's reminiscence was cut short, brought back to the present with his heart skipping a beat as he saw his father's troubled brown eyes looking back at him from the depths of the silvery blade.

It took him only a second to comprehend that it was his own reflection he was seeing thrown back at him. Tristan wasn't a vain man. He did not invest much in personal grooming and was not in the habit of checking his appearance. It surprised him to realise how he had grown into some resemblance of his father. The thought that he could become like the man made his blood run cold. He had never been violent towards Tristan or his mother, he had provided for them and Tristan supposed he had shown his love for them in the only way that he had known how. There was no real affection or warmth in Tristan's memory of him. The man had spiralled into a darkness that only the fleeting solace of inebriation seemed to lift.

Tristan tore his gaze from the blade, his mind even more troubled than before. In an attempt to create a semblance of normality he removed the whetstone from his bedside table and began methodically sharpening his blades. The routine brought some peace to his mind and when he was done he arranged the swords and knives neatly into place upon their brackets on the wall.

With no more possible distractions to occupy him Tristan finally snuffed out the flames of the lamps and returned to his bed. He did not feel like getting beneath the covers that night and instead opted to lie upon the bedding. Interlacing his fingers, he placed them beneath his weary head and lay on his back, but he could not convince himself to close his eyes just yet.

Thoughts of the wildling girl which had danced patiently on the edge of his mind now demanded his attention. He sincerely wished he had never brought her to the fort. His feeling were so utterly conflicting he was unsure if it was possible to untangle them all. He figured going right back to the beginning was a place to start.

He should have killed her there and then. It would have saved him all of his current strife, but then, upon discovering her body the Woads would have been alerted to the fact the Romans were scouting the area. He considered that he could have taken her farther away and found a suitably obscure place to leave her to die, but that would have increased the risk of crossing paths with others and he had been running out of daylight. Tristan toyed with other possibilities, but a little shadowy part of him knew that if he could go back to that very point, that moment she had closed her sharp eyes and surrendered to his blade, the outcome would have been the same, every time.

The thoughts of letting her go had not even occurred to him. Tristan believed in being honest, at the very least, with himself. He began to question his own motives. The hungry look in the eyes of the soldiers at the small fort as they settled upon his prisoner was enough to illicit feelings of protection, of responsibility, within him. He had brought the lamb amongst the wolves and he had not been willing to leave her behind. Tristan's nature was hard, but not cruel. He knew full well the appetites of men.

It was only when those closest to him had come into contact with the Pict that his thoughts had turned darker. Picturing her in Lancelot's arms, or under the administrations of Jols clinical hands stirred a brewing anger in him that disturbed him immensely. It felt...territorial. If Tristan wanted something he would go out and get it, or just take it. Had he taken her? Did he _want_ her?

The thoughts of forcing himself upon a woman was abhorrent to Tristan. She had certainly been put through her paces that day, and he had left her in a cell exhausted and in pain, though he suspected she was not yet defeated. There was no attraction for him in the act of beating someone down and forcibly taking what was not offered freely.

Tristan's mind drifted to the woman as he had first encountered her, all furious energy and righteous anger. Alive and sparkling, resourceful and intelligent. Tristan couldn't help the immediate reaction his body had at the thought of such a woman willingly directing the same energies into more carnal activities. He admonished himself for such thoughts, whilst fighting his natural urges. The fact that she was his prisoner, not the knowledge she was a Woad, was what he found distasteful in the direction his musings had taken.

Tristan could admit that this somewhat revelation to himself was why Lancelot's teasing had managed to get to him. Perhaps he'd gone too long without release and that was the cause of his lustful thoughts. Of course, the opposite could be said of Lancelot. Tristan could not find the energy nor the inclination to head out again that night, if he did he could have spent some of his frustration by bedding one of the fort whores. They were always happy to part the Knights from their coins.

Tristan absent-mindedly rubbed his beard before brushing his hair back off his forehead in a tangle of knots and braids. He finally closed his eyes, setting his mind to order once more. He pushed aside how he would have to explain bringing back a Woad woman to the fort, one who was strategically useless. In the morning he would question her, find out what she knew about the attacks on the Wall. If there was a village near where he had encountered her it stood to reason that the attacks stemmed from there. The growing frequency of the skirmishes gave an air that something was brewing North of the Wall. Like their defences were being put to the test. Would she talk, and if so, what then? He realised he would have to defer to Arthur's good judgement on what was to be done with her. Tristan felt some of the burden lifted from him, knowing that her fate would be out of his hands, whilst refusing to dwell on what that future may hold.

For now, at least, she was safe in the cell.

No one was suicidal enough to interfere with a Sarmatian prisoner.

**A/N - Or are they? Mwahahaha.**

**Thank you so much to everyone who has ever reviewed this story, in particular for Chapter 11. That means you guys: Gaara-frenzy, Persephone Targaryen, Concrete63, JoFrench22, selene344, AvalonTheLadyKiller and Shalise40.**

**Many thanks to all the new followers too =) **

**Always encouraging, endlessly motivating! I love to hear all of your thoughts on how the story is progressing. I can't thank you all enough. **

**The next update will be sticking to Tristan's POV, just too much to fit in to one chapter. How do we feel about Tristan viewing Kyla in a more sexual way? Will it change how he acts towards her when they see each other again?**

**Are you enjoying delving into Tristan's past? Let me know what you think. x**


	13. Chapter 13

The Woad in the Woods

Chapter 13.

Tristan's dreams were soaked in blood. Glorious crimson death, pain, and a pair of green eyes that were slowly leached of all signs of life. As bleary consciousness returned to him the visions that had disturbed his sleep began to immediately fade. He sat up wearily and threw his legs over the side of his bed, scrubbing at his eyes to coax some semblance of alertness into them. He didn't feel well rested and made his way to the shuttered window to get some idea of the time.

Dawn was breaking over the fort and there was a stillness in the air that would soon be disturbed by the hustle and bustle of the busy stronghold. Tristan longed to be heading out on patrol again, carrying all he needed upon his back and in his saddlebags. He enjoyed the company of his brothers, and tolerated being surrounded by the rest of the townsfolk, but he felt most at home immersed in the landscape by himself. He could only stand being cooped up behind the mighty walls for so long before the urge to head out came upon him once more. At the very least he was due a trek to the nearby river for a thorough cleanse. The idea was appealing, there was a crispness in the air that foretold the imminent turn in the weather and the cold clear waters would have shocked him awake in no time. However, knowing he had more important tasks at hand, he made due with the wash basin and water he kept in his room, splashing the liquid liberally over his face in an attempt at alertness, letting the water drench his beard and drip from his chin.

Dressing quickly and opting to carry a single blade on his person, he settled his cloak about his shoulders and left the room in search of sustenance. His feet took him automatically in the direction of the tavern and he hoped that someone would be there early whom he could source food from. The town was slowly coming alive around him but not many people had yet taken to the streets. The tavern looked deserted but a tell tale lazy stream of smoke reaching up from the kitchen told him at least one person was there. He rapped loudly on the door and was greeted by a confused and slightly intimidated looking boy, arms covered to the elbow in flour.

Tristan didn't reckon it was one of Bors brood, but then he'd lost track of them around number five. The Knights were generally refused nothing and Tristan was amused by the boy's eagerness to gather up a few of the flat breads he had just finished baking, along with an apple and a carrot for the stern Knight. Tristan tossed him a coin that more than paid for the paltry sum of food he had requested, to the boy's obvious delight. Leaving the tavern he made his way slowly over towards the stables, stashing the bread into a sizeable pouch hanging from his belt, the sweet red apple taking the edge off his hunger. No sooner had he set foot into the spacious barn than a large dappled equine head appear from a stall near the back and a loud whinny was raised in greeting.

Few things brought a smile to Tristan's face but the bossy, attention-seeking horse was one of them. Saratos shook out his mane impatiently and gave another low snicker. The moment he was within reach the horse stretched out his neck and set to sniffing at Tristan's body purposefully, lips and teeth pulling at his clothing, searching for the treat he was expecting to find. Tristan gave a low chuckle and scratched the beast between his ears, producing the carrot he had hidden within his shirt, careful not to loose a finger as Saratos snatched it from his hand. As Tristan lavished the horse with attention he knew he was just delaying the inevitable. He had to go question the girl and to do so he needed the interpretor that he had asked Jols to arrange. Giving the horse one final pat on the neck he made his way out of the stable again. He sourced a rope upon his exit, looping it up one arm to rest on his shoulder, his mood soured once more.

When Tristan reached Jols's room he was unsurprised to find the man already awake and dressed.

'Tristan', he said, clearly expecting the early visitor. 'You're heading to interrogate the girl now?'

Tristan returned the brief greeting with a quick nod of his head. 'Did you find someone who speaks Woad?'

'Yes, I asked about last night in the tavern. Met a guy from Rome, not been here long, name of Cassius. He said he'd be free this morning to assist you. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll gather my things and fetch him. Do you need anything else?' Jols asked, unhooking his cloak from the the back of his door and draping it about his shoulders.

Tristan had given some thought as to how the Pict would be best restrained for questioning. He didn't trust her not to resist at some point and the the iron rings on the wall would have kept her hands occupied but there was too much scope for her to get creative with her legs.

'A chair. No point in moving her, bring it to the holding cell'

'I'll see you there.' Jols replied, closing the door behind him and heading away briskly to complete his task.

Running out of reasons to dally any longer, Tristan squared his shoulders and started towards the barracks. He began to wonder how the Wildling had faired in the night. Had she been comfortable? Did she warm enough and manage to get any rest? How were her wounds? Tristan shook his head sharply to dislodge the concerns from his mind. She was a damned prisoner, what matter to him if she had or had not eaten the stew that Galahad had brought. What matter to him if she had noted Galahad's act of kindness and whether she would look favourably upon the fact he had intentions of leaving her some bread.

The holding cell was as he had left it the previous evening, heavy barrier still in it's cradle. Not that he had expected anything different. With no hesitation he hefted the rope upon his shoulder so it sat more securely before releasing the crossbar and depositing it upon the ground. He was alert to what would greet him as he opened the door but had not expected the absence of the Woad. This surprise was but momentary as she rose stiffly from behind the cot she had upturned as a shield, an un-lit torch clutched in a death grip between her hands as a thin blanket fell from around her shoulders.

Tristan did not advance immediately, no longer surprised by her resourcefulness, a certain part of him lighting up once more with respect whilst simultaneously becoming agitated with the scene. From the doorway he ran his critical eye over her. The Pict was dishevelled and grim. He imagined she hadn't meant to fall asleep, and the pain she tried to keep from her face was a mixture of her irritated wounds and her hurt pride. By the Gods she was calm though. Determined.

Tristan let the rope slip from his shoulder into his waiting palm. He uncoiled a length of it with his free hand, leaving a couple of feet of slack to rest between his grip. Her eyes didn't glance down to watch the movement, they never left his face. The woman was backlit by the slivers of morning light creeping through the windows, her dishevelled mane of curling dark hair haloed in red. Tristan's external façade didn't flicker, but his emotions were roiling. His heart rate had picked up a pace, his body coursing with anticipated energy at the impending contact. His thoughts were conflicted, tossing between annoyance, respect, frustration and relief. Layered beneath it all were lusty stirrings immediately quelled with revulsion.

His usual tactic was to let his enemy come to him but, knowing she wouldn't make the first move, he stepped forward into the range of her makeshift weapon. He gave her no option but to go immediately on the offence from behind the overturned cot. She swung the torch sharply aiming first for his head, then immediately for his right knee, both of which he deflected by pulling the rope taut between his hands and shielding the blows. Tristan felt the force behind the moves thrum upon the line, noting that her rest had served her well.

The Wildling was relentless. She hailed down hit after hit, moving fast but gaining no purchase against the superior warrior. Tristan's patience served him well as the girl finally made her one mistake and that was all he needed. As she overcompensated her balance briefly she was distracted for the split second that it took Tristan to wind the length of rope around the end of the torch, capturing it as he pulled the line tight, using her tool against her. Tristan pulled roughly on the rope to disarm her, but damned if the woman wouldn't relinquish her grasp. He yanked her clean across the overturned cot.

Momentum carried her to the ground, her body twisting towards Tristan as she grimly held on to the torch connecting them, her right shoulder taking the brunt of the fall, the wind knocked momentarily from her lungs. Tristan moved quickly, taking advantage of the situation, tearing the torch from her possession, freeing his hand immediately to grip her left wrist. He simultaneously twisted her arm behind her back whilst using his knee to force her onto her stomach. She panted hard beneath him and he assumed the small groan she couldn't hold back was due to her injured stomach being ground into the hard floor. He could break her arm easily in this position, and she knew it well.

'Tristan!' Jols had appeared in the doorway, heavily dropping the chair he had brought at the entrance before quickly coming to Tristan's assistance. Straddling her thighs Tristan dropped the rope and securely captured her other wrist, bringing the two side by side at the small of her back.

'Tie her wrists', he commanded Jols, who deftly completed the task. Once bound he grabbed a handful of her raucous curling hair tight at the scalp and directed her upright off the ground to her accompanying hiss. She raised up to the balls of her feet trying to relieve the pain his grip evoked.

'The chair' he instructed Jols. Once the chair was positioned centrally in the room he guided the subdued woman to sit. In the blink of an eye she had switched the rebellion off, perhaps conserving her energy once again. She sat passively as Tristan threaded the rope between the legs of the chair to Jols who seemed prepared for her to retaliate at any given moment as he wrapped it first around one, then the other ankle while the Knight kept a controlling grip on her dark mane.

There was a sharp rap on the open door, announcing the presence of the Roman soldier.

'Thank you for coming. Tristan, this is Cassius' Jols said, rising to his feet and reaching out to shake the soldiers hand. Tristan released his hold on the secured Pict, and nodded his head minutely in greeting. The woman reacted by coldly moving her now unrestricted head away from his reach.

"Tristan" Cassius acknowledged cordially.

"If I'm not needed...?", Jols asked. Tristan thanked and dismissed him, leaving him and Cassius to unravel the mystery that was the Woad.

Tristan had had very little dealings with the man before today. He recalled what he knew of the soldier and came up lacking. He was aware that Cassius had arrived from Rome roughly a year before and other than some small talk of his dubious honour in games of chance and his popularity with the ladies there was nothing more that came to mind. The same description could well be applied to many of his brothers. Tristan assessed him as he did any other man, weighing up how they might do in battle. He seemed muscular and lithe, probably not a bad person to have fighting at your side.

"You speak their tongue" Tristan stated more than asked, looking towards the girl, dismissing immediately the fluttering thought of what it would be like to converse with her directly.

"Yes, unfortunately, horrible guttural language that it is. A by-product of breaking in Woad slaves back in Rome. They're a fairly ignorant people, don't take to Latin very quickly." Cassius answered, his voice marking him as coming from an educated background. Tristan noted that though his words were harsh, he looked upon the Woad with interest. She in turn was watching them like one would watch two snakes, waiting to see if they would attack or leave you alone.

"There has been an increase in Woad attacks on patrols West of here. Find out what she knows" Tristan addressed Cassius, but he was still looking at the girl. If he had not he might have missed the barest wrinkle appearing between her arched eyebrows as she stared coldly back at him. Tristan had no time to digest the look before Cassius began to address her, diverting her attention back to him.

To Tristan's untrained ear it sounded like Cassius was fairly fluent in the native language. It wasn't often that Tristan spoke the words of his motherland, he even thought and dreamt in Latin. He was in the habit of speaking to Saratos and Tamura in the soothing tones of his tribal dialect. The Knights usually reverted to Sarmatian only when they didn't want their conversations overheard, generally in jest towards their Roman counterparts. Particularly colourful curse words, however, were littered throughout their everyday vocabulary.

The Pict did not seem surprised when the Roman began addressing her in her own language. Nor did she respond other than to stare coolly back at Cassius. A sudden urge overcame Tristan.

"Ask her what her name is" he directed the interpretor who appeared to convey the question to the her. She locked eyes with Tristan and gave the barest shake of her head. No, she would not surrender her name to him. The negative response only galled Tristan into wanting to possess the knowledge even more.

Tristan noticed the Woad's eyes dart to the door an instant before Lancelot cleared his throat.

"Am I interrupting?" he drawled. When his only reply was a stony silence from Tristan he continued, "Arthur sent me. He wants you to debrief now."

"Can it wait?" Tristan asked, masking his irritated. Duty warring briefly with his desire to finally learn more about the woman.

"Apparently not. He's keen to hear about what you deduced on patrol and, of course," Lancelot threw a smouldering look towards the Pict, "the newest addition to the holding cells. Best not to keep him waiting" Lancelot warned, arching one dark brow before departing.

Tristan had disliked the way Lancelot glanced at the girl but chose not to dissect why. He had put off reporting to Arthur, reasoning in his own mind that his statement would be more conclusive after having interrogated his prisoner. Tristan fixed her with a stare, he imagined delving into her unconscious and plucking her name right out of her head. Her guarded eyes flicked briefly to Cassius and back to him. Tristan noted her shift in focus and something in the back of his mind tried to puzzle it together with the fleeting expression he had noticed on her earlier.

"Keep questioning her, I'll not be long."

**A/N Still here! Still chipping away at this story in my rare time off and hopefully some of you are still following. Do please leave a review so I know there is still interest out there to see where this story will lead Kyla and Tristan. Thank you to all who have stuck with the story thus far and have previously left your thoughts and comment, it's such a motivation!**

**Cassius and Kyla alone, eh?**


	14. Chapter 14

The Woad in the Woods

Ch. 14

Kyla came awake with a start, her heart pounding in her chest. Her foggy brain supplied that the groaning of a heavy door was what had woken her. Sleep. She had _fallen asleep_. She cursed herself for a horses ass. Her body was in the same position she had placed herself in the night before, with a nice view of the overturned cot and her hands still wrapped around the snuffed out torch. There was light pouring in from beyond her barrier, someone had come for her. She was damned if she wasn't going to meet her fate head on. She forced her stiff body to stand, her limbs protesting from hard use followed by hours of cramped inaction. Adding to her general discomfort was the full bladder that was vying for her attention.

Tristan. Of course.

The Knight stood just inside the door, his large body blocking out some of the natural light. Watching. Calculating. Measuring her up from behind his fall of matted hair. She met his weighty gaze and gave him nothing back.

_'You have no power over me, Sarmatian. If I am to die it will be on my terms', _she thought, her hands tightening on the torch. She had a weapon and the free use of her limbs, which was a whole lot more than she had had the previous night, things were looking positively sunny. _'Come and get me, you bastard.' _

She saw him drop the rope from his shoulder, his demeanour unfazed. Would she ever catch him unawares? Would she ever have another opportunity to try?

He came to the cot without hesitation, right within her reach. She responded to the invitation with an attempt to knock his head clean from his shoulders. Clever Sarmatian, he used the rope to block her. Kyla's abused body was blessedly following her commands and she didn't let up with her rain of blows, searching for any weakness. They had already settled the debate on which of them was the better fighter, and she was lacking. If she could just do some damage on her way out, if she could just goad him into granting her a quick death. If she could. If she could.

The torch bounced back a little too sprightly from her last blow, causing her to overcompensate her stance, and that was all it took. Damn it, he was fast. She watched as he caught the end of the torch in a loop of rope and pulled, quicker than she could react. She was not prepared to let go however.

The cot knocked painfully on her shins as she was launched over the barricade with naught to catch her fall but the cold stone floor. Kyla just about managed to turn her body so the she landed on her side, pain shocking through her body upon impact and loosening the grip she had thus far successfully kept onto the torch. Gone, ripped from her hands as she readjusted. A hard clamp came down upon her wrist, adding to the pain from the previous days ministrations, twisting painfully until it was behind her back to the point of breaking. Her body screamed in protest at being trapped, at the weight on her back holding her to the floor. Pain flared from too many points to count and Kyla could not control the groan that eased out of her mouth.

As if the odds had not been great enough against her, she heard the call of another man from the direction of the door accompanied by a loud thud. The weight of the Knight settled evenly upon her thighs as he kept her immobile, grabbing her other wrist as she gritted her teeth through the pressure shooting up her arm that prevented her from retaliating. Her chaffed wrists were once again bound, as if the ropes where settling once more into the home they had gouged out of her skin the previous day. The burden upon her thighs was lifted at Tristan rose, but was replaced by the sharp, stinging pain on her scalp as her hair was used as leverage to get her to her feet. She had no option but to rise, the pain drowning out all of her other aches as she attempted to relieve some of the pressure by going on her tiptoes.

The man taking direction from Tristan turned out to be the healer from the night before. He placed a chair in the centre of the room and Tristan proceeded to direct her into sitting upon it, through the manipulation of his hold upon her. Through the fog of pain Kyla deduced that things couldn't be too dire if she was not leaving the cell yet and the healer was present. He had seemed the most kindly of those she had encountered at the blasted fort.

More importantly, she was not dead yet. Ample though the chances had been to end her life.

Perhaps now was the time to take stock of the situation and wait to see what their next move was.

Kyla's scalp still tingled painfully from where the Knight had roughly taken hold of her hair, but she had urged herself to sit passively as both he and the healer secured her to the chair. Her successful detainment coincided with the appearance of a Roman soldier. Not a Sarmatian Knight, just a regular Briton-Killing-Land-Stealing Roman. Kyla tried to remain unruffled by the new addition. He was well built, dark of hair with golden skin. His handsome face was marred by the sparkle of his blue eyes as they swept over her. Kyla successfully repressed a shiver.

Clearly he was unknown to the Knight, the healer having to introduce the two. The situation was not helped by his immediate departure. Kyla wondered at her feelings of dismay caused by his absence. She reminded herself that she had no friends within these walls. The reason for the Roman's presence became apparent upon Tristan's challenge of whether he spoke the native language or not. _'Their'_ language, _her_ language.

As this '_Cassius_' explained how he had knowledge of her tongue Kyla fought to keep her face clear of the revulsion she felt. She was more than aware of Tristan's hulking presence watching her intently. She despised the term _'Woad', _and hated to hear it comfortably sliding out of this strangers mouth as if he could just as easily be referring to a dog. Only one other word sounded worse in his charming monologue.

_Slaves._

_'It's true then_', Kyla's stomach dropped at the thought.

So the Romans had stolen her people away to their far off lands over the sea to a life of servitude. There had been rumours, of course, but there was no way to substantiate the truth. Those who 'disappeared' were never heard from again. Those who purposefully left the motherland to travel abroad took months to return, sometimes years, and not many had ventured into Roman territory. Kyla was aware of the few Roman estates North of the wall, but those who chose to live in the shadows of their high walls for the benefits they thought it bestowed were free to leave as they wished, though they were ruled with an iron fist.

Was this the purpose of her capture? Was she to bend to another's will? She'd rather die, thank you very much.

She stared at Cassius, wishing her looks could kill.

Her attention reverted to Tristan as he spoke in his short, brusque manner.

"There has been an increase in Woad attacks on patrols West of here. Find out what she knows"

He spoke to the Roman, but his eyes stayed on hers. Her _Woad _eyes. Kyla was taken aback. Attacks on Roman patrols? She knew nothing about any organised attacks. There had been no directives to pursue such strategies. Not in her village at any rate.

"**Woad,_ we have some questions for you." _**he stated smoothly, his Pictish flavoured with an accent but entirely competent, it was bizarre to Kyla's ears. **"_This will go easier on you if you answer them promptly, honestly and in a detailed fashion. What do you know of the attacks on our most glorious Roman patrols stationed West of this fort?"_**

Kyla just stared at him with disdain. 'Most glorious Roman patrols', it was beyond belief. No one had been ordered to attack the section of the Wall that was closest to her village. There were attacks elsewhere, yes. There had always been raids testing the strength of the Wall here and there, sourcing spots where it was easiest to cross over. No word had come down from Merlin or the other tribal leaders to begin such tactics stemming from the hamlet she called home. Unless...no, it wasn't possible.

Taran and Drest. Those pigheaded friends of hers had become more vocal in their descent towards the occupying Romans since they had returned this Summer from a trading excursion to the Highlands. They had spoken more frequently and passionately about the lack of direct action taken against the foreigners. Kyla had put it down to them trying to act like 'big, hard men'. It occurred to her that there had been a turning point not so long ago where they had seemingly overcome their growing frustration. Kyla had noted it at the time, but thought it was due to them finally sprouting some sense between their ears. Their frequent disappearances were starting to look suspicious in hindsight. Kyla worked hard at masking her discordant thoughts with a cool stare she hoped gave nothing away.

"Ask her what her name is"

The command had come from Tristan, and though she waited for the Roman to reiterate the question, her answer was for him alone. She waited a moment, waited until she was sure that she had his undivided attention. She channelled all her of her dignity and pride into the smallest shake of her head,

_'No. You can not have that. You may have my body, you may have my very life, but I will not give you my name. You do not deserve to have it upon your lips. It is mine. How dare you even ask'_

She momentarily forgot about the other person present. They were locked in a communication that surpassed words. His scrutiny was as intense as ever and Kyla only broke the link when her peripheral vision caught the movement at the door.

The dark Knight, Lancelot. This was not an improvement.

"Am I interrupting?"he spoke in a suggestive manner that did not appeal to Kyla in the slightest. "Arthur sent me. He wants you to debrief now."

Arthur. Arthur was here. If the Sarmatian Knights were famed amongst the Pictish people, Arthur was held in even greater esteem, or was that infamy? His fighting prowess was legendary, a foe to be truly feared. Having faced some of the Sarmatian Knights, Kyla shuddered to think how fearsome the man who lead them must be.

"Can it wait?" Tristan asked.

"Apparently not. He's keen to hear about what you deduced on patrol and, of course, the newest addition to the holding cells." Lancelot replied, his oily look in Kyla's direction making her wish she had successfully gutted him the previous day. He was one to watch out for, if she was around that long.

"Best not to keep him waiting"

Lancelot's parting shot brought clarification to Kyla. Tristan was leaving. He was leaving and she would be alone with the Roman. He stared at her for a moment, nothing of his thoughts decipherable to her.

"Keep questioning her, I'll not be long."

She watched Tristan head for the door with trepidation. This Roman was unknown to her and though Tristan was by far the more intimidating of the two, at least she was beginning to understand something of where she stood with him. The Roman's eyes lingered on the heavy wooden door as it shut behind the Sarmatian, an unkind look upon his face, before swinging around to drink Kyla in. His well proportioned body became instantly more relaxed in the dimmer room as he leaned his shoulder against the closest wall and hooked his thumbs through his sword belt. Kyla's body had the exact opposite reaction, tensing up as her blood ran cold.

"_**Just you and me then**_",Cassius smirked. His mood soured a little as he glanced briefly at the door. "_**For awhile, anyway, but that should be enough**_"

He pushed off from the wall, beginning to slowly circle her, forcing her to turn her head to keep him in her sights. Kyla knew. She knew.

This was not going to end well.

"_**You bastards think you can attack us and get away with it? You think there are no consequences to your pathetic attempts at rebellion?**_" Kyla lost sight of him briefly as he languidly passed behind her, whipping her head around so as to not lose sight of the male who had begun to exude a malevolence he had not shown in front of the Knights. All the while he had that smug look upon his face, like the fox who had caught the vole. Kyla's eyes flickered towards the door. For what? For the reappearance of a _different_ dangerous man, a man who had hurt her repeatedly, a man who had forced her into submission time and again? Was that a better alternative? As it happened Kyla was beginning to think it was. In a sudden moment of clarity it occurred to her that Tristan's actions were all in retaliation to Kyla's own actions. Did he hurt her any more than was strictly necessary to keep the upper hand? No. Did that justify him forcibly kidnapping her? Certainly not, but she had some idea of what to expect from him. Better the demon you know.

"_**No, no. Not to worry. We'll not be interrupted for some time.**_" Cassius demanded her attention once again, eyes holding a warmth to them that Kyla refused to acknowledge.

"_**Shall we begin again? Who is leading the attacks on the Wall to the West?**_"

Fuck him, he'd get nothing from her, not that she knew anything for a certainty in the first place. Kyla stared stonily ahead, refusing to look at the Roman who continued his orbit around her anchored position.

"_**You may want to start talking soon. I'm not a very patient man. Who ordered the attacks?**_"

When his question was answered with more silence he continued, "_**Shall we try something a little easier then? Where are you based?**__"_

_._

No. Kyla was not inclined to share that information. For the love of the God and Goddess, she had surrendered to her fate to protect her village and Callum. She would not hand them over to the enemy now. Kyla steeled her resolve not to open her mouth.

"_**Do you savages even have dwellings? I suppose you must. How close to the Wall do you live?**_"

Nothing.

"_**How many of you are there?**_"

Silence.

Cassius stood before Kyla and folded his arms with a smirk, her reticence doing nothing to irritate him.

"_**Oh, I'm going to have fun breaking you.**_" he said quietly.

**A/N Woah! Posting two chapters in three days!? I have no idea what's going on. I was really meant to be getting on with work all day and somehow managed to procrastinate long enough to write this.**

**You have Concrete63, Gaara-frenzy, Jofrench22, Lilla and one guest reviewer to thank. It's easy to forget how much of a buzz it is to get a review/feedback on your work. I was just in the zone, and I can't thank you enough.**

**Sorry to say that this is not the norm for me, but I will say that I have the next chapter almost complete so at least the next one won't be too long in coming. Story definitely lives up to it's M rating in the next chapter, be forewarned. **

**Thank you all again, and to the new followers. Please do review, it appears to get the story written faster ;)**


	15. Chapter 15

The Woad in the Woods

Ch.15

Cassius stood before Kyla and folded his arms with a smirk, her reticence doing nothing to irritate him, which she tried to not let it bother her in return.

"_**Oh, I'm going to have fun breaking you.**_" he said quietly.

He continued his slow circling prowl around her. His languid movements completely at ease now. Clearly he was in his element in familiar territory.

"_**Still not feeling chatty?**_"

Kyla defiantly raised her chin, keeping her eyes forward. Her ears strained past the sound of the slight acceleration in her breathing as Cassius's footsteps paused behind her. She refused to look, refused to take the bait.

Nothing was said. There was no movement from behind her, her body itched with the need to look to see what he was doing but she fought against the urge. All too soon his presence was accounted for as she felt a caress on the back of her head.

Kyla's resolve broke. She couldn't possibly hold still when he was touching her and she moved her head forward out of his reach, to no avail. Once more her flowing mane was used against her as Cassius painfully tightened his hold on her hair. Her head was locked in place by the excruciating snare, adrenaline scorching through her veins, her breath leaving her in a hiss. If she survived what was to come she was going to consider chopping all of her locks off to be damned.

Cassius's body connected with her bare arms as he closed the distance behind her. The rough leather of his skirted tunic separating their flesh and causing her to shiver. Tilting her head back and to one side, he brought his face close to hers.

"_**We have ways and means to make you talk,**_** Woad**" he growled quietly in her ear, tugging even harder on her hair for emphasis, drawing a pained exclamation from her lips. Cassius's right hand crept spider-like over her shoulder, crawling along slowly and coming to rest snugly around her throat. He squeezed slowly on her windpipe. Taking his time, exerting his control upon her.

"_**I'll find your weaknesses. I'll find what you can't bear...and I'll destroy you.**_" he continued conversationally in low tones, squeezing even tighter as Kyla struggled to take a full breath, her body beginning to twitch in panic. He had her held in place though, with no room to squirm, her ankles and wrists becoming raw once more as she resisted her restraints. She needed air, she needed...air. She couldn't breathe. Just right at the moment it became too much, when her vision became tinged with grey, he released the grasp on her throat. Kyla took in huge draughts of air, her lungs greedily filling once more. He didn't relinquish his hold on her hair as he gave her a moment to readjust.

"_**Who's behind the attacks on the Wall to the West?**_", Cassius continued once her breathing had returned to some semblance of normality.

Kyla was not built to withstand torture. She knew this deep within her core, a truth she could acknowledge and accept. She was no warrior. She had a feeling where her limits might lie and did not care to test the boundaries of her stamina nor prolong her suffering. Her only weapon was a sharp tongue to goad him into killing her quick. She may be able to hang on long enough for that.

"_**Fuck...You**_" Kyla bit out through gritted teeth. Ready, and yet unprepared, for the retaliation.

"_**Tut tut. You'll give me ideas." **_Cassius purred.

" _**There are so many different ways to inflict pain upon a person.**_" Cassius let his right hand drift down over Kyla's collarbone, slowly inching towards the neckline of her tunic.

"_**A woman though, even a low-life mongrel whore like yourself...oh, there are so many effective ways to hurt a woman.**_"

Kyla shuddered. Her eyes blurred with tears as Cassius's hand plunged beneath her top to roughly grab at her breast, squeezing it painfully, kneading it cruely. She struggled harder. Resolve or no, she could not sit unresponsive to his actions.

"_**Ways to haunt her for the rest of her days**_."

He took her nipple between his calloused fingers and twisted hard, causing Kyla to cry out in anguish. She hated that he had torn the sound from her throat. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Cassius leaned into her closer, pressing the full weight of his hard body against her bound arms.

"_**It's been too long since I got my dick wet on wildling snatch**_" he breathed in her ear, removing his hand from her her top and reaching down to roughly grab at her core over her leggings. His fingers dug painfully into her, trying to push their way inside past the barricade of cloth as she tried and failed to bring her thighs together. Kyla's anger was overwhelming, all-consuming. To be so violated and yet feel so utterly helpless. When she had been first captured by Tristan she had not lingered on thoughts that this was to be her fate, and yet as time had drawn on she had come to hope that she would not suffer in this way before she died. For it to occur now seemed to make what was happening even more devastating. She thrashed under his grasp, attempting to rip her hair from her head to set it free, realising the futility of calling out but not being able to stop the whimpers that escaped her in misery. The situation was hopeless.

Cassius removed his hand abruptly, returning it to encircle her throat.

" _**I think we've discovered your voice,**_** Woad**." he said with self satisfaction, before slowly running his tongue up the side of her face, to her utter loathing. "_**Will you sing sweetly for me now? Did you know that we have lost five good men to your pitiful attacks in the last month? **_" he snarled, the jerking grip on her hair punctuating the statement, the placating tones abandoned.

Kyla couldn't help the grimace that was part smile that passed her lips. "_**Five...less...Roman **_**dogs**_** to worry about**_" she bit out.

Cassius was like a thunder storm suddenly before her, a cold and calculating, unstoppable force of nature. The almighty slap she received in response probably hadn't been worth it, but for one second Kyla had felt like she had the higher ground. As her face exploded in pain, she slammed her eyes shut trying to block it out. This, she needed more of this, she needed him angry and lashing out. It would end sooner this way.

Cassius hands slammed his hands down on her thighs as he leaned right into her face.

" _**My fair cousin was one of those Roman 'dogs', whore. He was a fucking degenerate and waste of good armour but he deserved a better death than at the hands of you scum dwelling pieces of heathen shit.**__" _he snarled lowly, so close she could see the darker flecks in his blue, blue eyes.

Kyla moved her head back as far as she could from the vile soldier and his breath that was too hot on her face, then slammed her forehead with as much force as she could muster right into the bastards nose, just like Taran had taught her.

Cassius howled in pain, jumping back and grabbing his busted visage, blood pouring through his fingers.

"You fucking bitch. You fucking BITCH!" he roared, reverting back to Latin.

This time Cassius backhanded Kyla with such force that the momentum threw her weight to one side, rocking the chair beneath her to a teetering gravitational precipice. Kyla's sight exploded into stars, her body suspended for an endless moment in space before coming crashing down to earth with no way to brace the fall. Her wounded left arm took most of the shock of the landing, with her head only impacting slightly against the flagstones. Her vision was taking it's time returning to her, and just as she recovered from the initial eruption of pain, Cassius's boots appeared in her limited line of sight.

"Woad cunt" he snarled, kicking her full in her injured stomach, again and again. Over and over, progressively vicious in strength and execution The pain was intense, it was all consuming and Kyla prayed, she prayed it would be over soon.

**A/N - Took a little longer than intended to polish this chapter up. Hope you are all still enjoying!**

**Many heartfelt thanks to LittleFlatts, Momotte, Eva, Gaara-frenzy, Lilla, Jofrench22, AvalonTheLadyKiller, Concrete63 and the guest reviewers who left their comments on the last chapter. You are the fuel to my fire.**

**Where, oh where, oh where is Tristan?**


	16. Chapter 16

**The Woad in the Woods**

Chapter 16

Tristan closed the door behind him firmly as he left Arthur's study. His debriefing could not have gone any better in hindsight and he was relieved it was over and done with. He started out across the fort back towards the holding cells, his feet seeming eager to get him there swiftly. As he wove through the bustling square, past the vegetable carts, squawking chickens and generally rowdy trades folk, he contemplated the things he and Arthur had spoken of.

Introspection wasn't something Tristan was fond of indulging in, and yet here he was again, questioning himself and the views that others had of him. As it turned out Arthur was supportive of his decision to bring the Woad back to Badon Hill. He played out the different scenarios and their consequences much as Tristan had reasoned out himself and concluded that he had done the only right thing he could have done under the circumstance. What gave Tristan pause to think was that Arthur had been surprised that it was the solution that _Tristan_ had come to. The Knights held Arthur up as a shining beacon of morality, one that they admired greatly, if not always inclined to follow by example to the same degree. Arthur had appeared genuinely taken aback after Tristan had given his account of his actions, and also, dare he think, a little _proud_? The implication and presumption being that one would think that Tristan, being who he is, would have left the girl for dead in any given scenario. Removing her from the immediate vicinity was strategic, but he then had the option of disposing of her elsewhere or bringing her with him. Though Arthur had commended his decision making, short of immediately questioning the girl he had not come to his own conclusions about what to do with her. He had requested the day to dwell on it, and commanded Tristan to resume interrogating the girl and to report back the next day with his findings.

Making his way through the fort Tristan was glad of his reputation, as people quickly sidestepped out of the way of the surly Knight. Of course, these days it appeared his luck would never hold. Tristan fought the urge to roll his eyes as he stalked past the tavern, refusing to let up his pace whilst Lancelot, grinning, jumped up from his seated position, which happened to have a very good view of the direction Tristan had just come from. He didn't bother calling out to his brother but fell into pace beside him jovially. Tristan was not in the mood. Lancelot was like a dog with a bone, knowing that his teasing was getting through Tristan's usually impenetrable shell.

"What say Arthur?" he asked, dark eyes glinting with amusement.

There was no point in attempting to ignore the buzzing gnat that was Lancelot.

"Continue the interrogation." Tristan replied crisply.

"No need to ask, brother," Lancelot smiled, clapping his hand onto Tristan's shoulder," Of course I'll help you. Couldn't let you have all the fun. Terribly fascinated to learn more about the wildcat myself, truth be told."

There was no response Tristan could give that would not let on to his irritation so he he just gave a curt nod in reply. He suspected even his lack of reply served to amuse Lancelot. He did not want an audience when questioning the girl. It frustrated him no end that he required the assistance of Cassius to communicate with her in the first place. She was a riddle that needed solving. Not so much the girl herself and who she was, but the effect she was having on him and his usually ordered and clinical mind. Perhaps she _was_ a blue demon, casting him under a spell of confusion and self doubt.

His eyes locked on the door of the cell they were approaching, wishing he had not shut the door after himself as he had left, and in the same breath acknowledging that it was not right that he was thinking that as it meant he wished the door was open so he could set his eyes on the Woad girl sooner.

Stepping up his pace, hoping to leave Lancelot behind, he got to the door seconds before his fellow Knight, unable to stop his brows frowning in annoyance. He swung the door wide, a little too brusquely. The sight before him paused him but for a moment. A moment to take in the overturned chair. A moment for Cassius to finish savagely kicking something on the ground.

Cassius turned his head in Tristan's direction, one hand clasping his nose, blood dripping from his chin and staining the front of his tunic.

"Fucking bitch head butted me" he garbled from behind his hand, clearly indignant with rage.

In Tristan's home village there had been a surly blacksmith, with only one good eye, who couldn't complete a sentence without swearing. In his youth Tristan had spent many days at the smithy, watching as the old man stoked the fires and expertly forced the glowing metal to shape at his command. When the fires burned at their hottest they were white, pure white. In that moment Tristan felt that he was consumed with the same white hot intensity as those roaring flames. He wasn't known for losing his temper. His anger was a cool, dark place, running still and deep as a cavern's pool. All that was forgotten as he launched himself at the Roman.

Cassius's shock at being on the receiving end of Tristan's attention was evident by his sluggishness to defend himself. Tristan grabbed him, twisting his body to throw him to the ground in the direction of the door where he landed heavily near Lancelot's feet. Rage was coursing through him, he was painfully aware of every fibre of his being. Every muscle, every limb was alight with barely contained energy. He glanced at the unmoving girl before grabbing a fistful of the Roman's tunic and hauling him to his feet, before slamming him against the wall, one forearm pinned across Cassius's throat.

"Did I say you could touch her."he growled quietly, slamming the Roman back against the wall for emphasis.

Cassius's eyes were alight with their own fire and scorn, his blue eyes contrasting nicely with the crimson dripping down his chin.

"What in God's name is wrong with you!?" he spat. .

"Tristan" Lancelot's voice held a note of warning, a request for caution.

Tristan didn't want to relent, he wanted nothing more than to beat the living daylights out of the man before him. To smash his face until he felt bones breaking. To shove his thumbs into his eyesockets until he felt the orbs within burst. The depth of his anger scared him more than anything had managed to in the past ten years. This was not him, this was not how he acted. This division of mind and body was not how he had learned to survive in his captive land. His mind was always present when he fought, always aware, always conscious. With effort Tristan unclenched his teeth and relaxed his hold on the Roman.

"Get out" he said quietly.

Cassius, once free to move, returned one hand to cover his nose, the other clenched so his knuckles showed white. His eyes held a deathly glare and Tristan knew that he had not made any friends that day.

Lancelot intervened before Cassius could utter whatever words where on the tip of his tongue, a clever move for all involved.

"Come on, let's get that looked at" he said, his tone brokering no argument. Lancelot threw Tristan a guarded look as he let the Roman pass through the door before following him out.

Tristan stared blankly at the space they had just occupied, taking a moment to shakily gather himself. The barely audible groan behind him, however, got him moving again.

Tristan, his mind once more his own, moved quickly to right the chair, managing it easily. The groaning was magnified as the Woad jostled back into an upright position, her breath coming out in gasps. She had known nothing but pain since he had entered her life, he acknowledged, whilst trying hard to deny the despondency it conjured. The Pict slumped forward, allowing her restraints to keep her in place. Her breathing was laboured and her dark curling hair fell forward to hide her down-turned face.

Tristan hunkered down in front of her, having to consciously keep his heart rate even for the first time in years. His knowing eye assessed the damage he could see. Her shredded tunic top had blossomed once more in bright red, adding to the darker stains already present. Blood dripped down her left arm, the bandage there now saturated. He imagined her wrists and ankles would be raw too. He needed to get Jols to look her over once again.

Battling one moment of hesitancy, Tristan reached out and steadily manoeuvred her chin upwards so he could see her face. He kept his thoughts to himself as their eyes met through a curtain of her dishevelled hair. With his free hand he slowly moved to shift the loose strands to one side but she moved away from his touch, jerking her chin free of his hold. She slowly tilted her head skywards, her eyes closed as she let out a pained breath and shook her hair back off of her face. When she eventually turned to him again her green eyes were tired, pained but determined. Her right eye was closed slightly from swelling, a bruise beginning to appear on her cheek. Cassius's handy-work. The accusation hung heavy around Tristan.

The Woad's lips parted slowly and her tongue prodded experimentally at the split in her bottom lip, casting her eyes down for a moment, wincing as she did so. Tristan couldn't tear his gaze away from her, taking an effort not to utter the apology on his own lips.

"What...do you...want with me?" she says quietly, but fiercely...in fairly perfect Latin.

Tristan could almost kick himself. She'd understood them all along. His quick mind processed the past few hours, the fleeting expressions he had noticed that had passed over her face as people talked around her, the slight look of alarm as Lancelot called him away from the cell. Lancelot's jibes...his innuendo and teasing. She was more clever than even he had given her credit for, and, in turn, perhaps more tormented by what was being said around her. Tristan was responsible for her and he had delivered her into the hands of Cassius.

How had he not interpreted her looks for the understanding that was there? A scout was meant to be more intuitive than that. To read volumes of information from the smallest indentation on the ground, to notice the broken twig that escaped the views of others, to see what was right in front of you. His own skills were clouded by her presence.

Tristan kept his face guarded, his revelations hidden behind the mask. He should be asking her about the forces to the North, the attacks on the Wall, what Cassius had done to her, why she had attacked him in the first place.

He just wanted to hear her speak again. He wanted her to say anything so he could listen to her unusually accented voice.

"Tell me your name"

**Well hello there! Still not given up on this story folks, though the chapters come few and far between. The usual excuses follow; no time, moving house, busy with other work etc.**

**To my heroes for their reviews of the last chapter: Concrete63, Gaara-frenzy, WMaldonado89, Jofrench22, AvalonTheLadyKiller, mezzieb1, Mystic Archer Horse, and to Soaring hawk1, Lux and Eva for their multiple reviews and prods ;) Apologies to those I haven't manage to reply personally to.**

**Honestly, every time I get a new review, follow or fav it's a reminder to me to get a chance to sit down and find some time to write more. Thank you all for sticking with me, your thoughts are greatly appreciated.**


	17. Chapter 17

**The Woad In The Woods**

**Chapter 17**

"Tell me your name"

Kyla was too tired to glare, she was in too much pain to spare Tristan a withering look. She just relented with unbroken eye contacted. Not saying a word. If he wouldn't answer her question she wouldn't be answering his.

Tristan's face was at the same level as hers, his hunkered form not crowding her, his forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped lightly together. His eyes danced slightly as he focused from one of her eyes to the other, searching, probing.

_'Please look away first...',_ she pleaded in her mind,_'...please.'_

She had no energy left to be proud, to be strong. She was tired and not fit to be tested by him again so soon. She willed the tears she felt welling inside her to keep at bay. For the first time he broke their locked gaze, his eyes dropping to the bindings at her feet.

Kyla sighed quietly, taking a comfort in the smallest release it had brought. Kneeling, Tristan began to loosen the lengths of rope around her ankles. In so lucky as one could be in her position it seemed her foot coverings had protected her from chaffing. Rising, he circled her and began to undo her bound wrists. Kyla was aware that he didn't make contact with her any more than necessary as he worked at undoing the knots. Though the experience was different she couldn't help but shudder at the memory of Cassius standing behind her. She turned her head to the side so she could keep an eye on the Sarmatian, the dark recollection of moments before so close to the surface.

As the bindings around her wrist were blessedly loosened Kyla recalled how her vision had started fading to grey when she had heard the door open, announcing Tristan's arrival. Not that she had realised at the time that that was what she was hearing. All she had known then was that Cassius's foot had finally ceased kicking her savagely in the abdomen, giving her a moments respite. Her wishes of being knocked out cold had gone unanswered, being kicked slowly to death had lost it's appeal immediately as the pain had overwhelmed her,

She had been dimly aware of Cassius talking to someone and realised through a haze that he had been pulled away from her. She tried to focus on what was being said but could only muster the wherewithal to force her eyes open to search the room. She had seen that Tristan had Cassius pinned against a wall. Tristan was back. The dark Knight was by the door. She knew then that it was over...for now.

As the rope finally fell away Kyla let out a grunt of discomfort as she stretched out her shoulders and brought her hands to her lap. Her wrists were raw and angry from where the ropes had gouged in to her. She wasn't sure what hurt the most, her throbbing head, aching arms of her battered stomach. All together it just sent one thundering cacophony of pain through her system. She wished desperately to be home on her own pallet, curled under layers of wool and fur while Caleb nattered incessantly trying to stay up as late as possible.

The rope in question was tossed towards the door from behind her. Just as it landed in a tangle on the ground, the dark Knight, Lancelot, reappeared. For once he looked serious and remained quiet. Kyla wondered briefly at this other side of the Knight. No jokes now, no teasing. He assessed her gravely before glancing behind her at the warrior still at her back.

"Jols?" He said the name like it was a question. He must have received some unspoken answer from Tristan, he nodded once and immediately left.

Kyla's heart jumped in her chest at a screeching noise behind her, twisting her torso around in reaction, preparing for whatever she would find Tristan doing, wrenching her body in pain at the sudden movement.

Tristan had paused with the wooden cot tilted at an angle, half way through dragging it back into it's rightful position. He looked at Kyla, keeping eye contact steadily for a moment, giving her a chance to process what he was doing without alarming her further, before he continued on with the activity. She didn't think she had ever communicated so much with another living person without having to say anything at all.

Kyla's heart rate began to slow down once more but she kept her body half twisted around the chair to keep one eye on him and one on the door. She wrapped her right arm over her stomach, bending slightly at the waist so as to ease the pain. What use was an unguarded door now when she could barely even sit up straight?

Tristan was methodical in redistributing the hay over the cot. He shook out the previously discarded wool blanket and draped it over the bedding. As usual, for Kyla, she could read nothing from his expression. It stood to logic that he had not been happy with Cassius's behaviour if he had stopped him, but the indifference now was self evident. Perhaps he was only angry at being disobeyed? Kyla had come to know him as a controlling man, it stood to reason.

He straightened up and stood back from the cot, one shoulder leaning against the wall, looking at her with his dark eyes.

"Jols is the healer who tended to you before. Lie down, he'll be here shortly." he said gruffly.

Kyla would have riled normally at the commands, the directions, the control Tristan exerted over her so casually, but lacked the energy this time to care. Beat her down and patch her up. Was this to be her life now? To what end?

Sensing a need to bite her tongue this time she used the backrest of the chair to support her weight, slowly rising to her feet, wincing at the pain that lanced through her. Kyla gritted her teeth as her vision went grey briefly and she felt light headed. Once sure of herself she took first one, then another step towards the cot. She did not pay much attention to Tristan, who stood sentry by the wall, observing her every move as she crossed the few feet of ground.

Kyla reached a hand down to guide her onto the cot, her eyes clenched tight at the manoeuvre. Once seated again she took a deep breath. She tried to lower her body back but her stomach muscles screamed in protest. Kyla leaned forward again, grimacing, one arm pressing against the bandages covering her stomach. Eyes closed, she took a few moments to compose herself. When she opened them they met Tristan's. He had taken one step towards her, but had paused there, waiting to see what she did.

There was no pity on his face, or no other earthly emotion she could identify with. He just watched her, analysed her, always assessing her every move. Curse his eyes.

Holding her breath, Kyla eased her body sideways onto the blanket, before using her legs to roll herself on to her back. She let her breath out again shakily once she had accomplished the feat, willing her body to relax, once muscle at a time.

She supposed she should have felt exposed, lying prone on a cot in a Roman fort with just the Sarmatian for company. Though terrifying, deadly and vastly stronger than her, she had come to her own understanding of the man. Where as she would have died before following the command to 'lie down' if the words had come from Cassius, from Tristan she had come to expect that he would be level with her. If and when he intended to kill her, she would know about it. And he would do it quickly, with as little pain as possible. How she was so sure of these thoughts she didn't know.

Tristan resumed leaning against the wall. He glanced towards the door. Kyla thought she might have detected a hint of irritation in the look. Impatience perhaps? When he looked at her again his brown eyes skimmed darkly over her body. There was no heat to the look to make her feel uncomfortable, only a level of scrutiny that made her self-conscious.

Tristan glanced once more at the door before expelling air in a rush out of his nose, an action that if it had come from his mouth would have been a sigh. He briskly walked to the far side of the room and retrieved the water skin, deposited half empty on the floor.

"I'd like to take a look at your wounds" he tells her, approaching the bed. Kyla's body tensed

, but Tristan made no other move towards her once he reached her side. Was he waiting for her consent? Jols had done the same the day before, hadn't he? Waiting until she gave him permission before he touched her.

Kyla scowled, but acquiesced. Tristan knelt by the bed. He produced a small blade from a sheath at his hip, sparing a glance at the girl. Kyla's heart fluttered momentarily.

"Your arm" he said quietly, indicating the soaked bandage with an incline of his head. So strange to think that she..._trusted _this man to do no more with the blade than what he had indicated he would do. Kyla shifted her left arm away from her body, closer to the Knight. Gently and deftly Tristan made short work of the wrapping, the sharp blade slicing through fabric easily. Kyla kept her head turned to watch his movements, flickering between his hands and and his still and serious face.

His brown eyes were sharp, but guarded, partially hidden by strands of unkempt hair falling loose from his braids. Kyla noted the grey coming through his beard and wondered at his age. Older than her, but by how many years? She was distracted by the gentle but commanding touch at her elbow, directing her to raise her arm up slightly so that he could remove the rest of the cloth trapped beneath her arm before instructing her to drop her arm again. The Knight unstoppered the water skin and let a little run over the gash on her arm. The water was cold, at once shocking and soothing. Returning the skin to the ground he set about folding the bandages so that the least soiled section was on top and began to clean away the blood around the wound. Kyla hissed when the cloth probed too close to where it really hurt, but didn't cause Tristan to pause.

Tristan turned his head slightly towards the door before rising to his feet and stepping back from the cot. Not two seconds later Jols the healer entered. Did the Sarmatian have the hearing of a damn cat? Jols looked to Tristan.

"That bastard..." he began, but was waved off by Tristan.

"You weren't to know. It's done."

It seemed that was that, Jols nodded and approached Kyla. She felt more comfortable with him present, remembering how sensitive and competent he had been the evening before. She noted Tristan's eyes meeting hers as he informed Jols of her capability with understanding and speaking Latin. In the moment she had spoken to him she had been too tired to keep up the ruse, but now she regretted letting the mask slip. It couldn't be helped now.

Jols look of surprise quickly transformed into something bordering on conspiratorial. He knelt down beside the cot, laying his package of medicinal goods on the bedding .

"You broke his nose by the way" he said with a small grin accompanied by a wink.

Kyla couldn't suppress the smile she returned to the gentle man at his revelation and apparent glee.

"Now let's have a look at you" he said, glancing at her lip as he unravelled his various lotions and potions. "First things first" he continued, gathering a little bud of a sweet smelling ointment and offering to place it on her wounded lip.

"I..can " Kyla said, stopping the man with her words. She lifted her hand and gingerly, with one finger and minimum contact, lifted the healing balm off of his hand. Someone else touching her lips felt far too intimate. She liberally covered the area of her mouth that hurt, with a nod from Jols upon completion indicating she had managed to cover the right area.

With her cooperation he made short work of tending to her arm and, with some shuffling and tentative manoeuvring, her battered abdomen. Her wounds this time around seemed to create a level of disdain in the healer as he occasionally frowned or tutted.

Lancelot returned as Jols finished securing the fresh wrapping around her middle. He was carrying a steaming jug and a small cup. Jols had clearly been expecting him.

"Yes, here, please" he said when he noticed the Knight, pointing to the ground near where he knelt. Once Lancelot had relinquished his hold of the jug he cast a solemn look at Kyla. What was one to make of him at all? Gone, for now, was the innuendo spewing man and what was left behind was someone reserved and respectful when the moment called for it.

Jols carefully poured out some of the contents of the jug into the small receptacle.

"Willowbark tea, to ease your pain and help you rest. Can you sit up?" Kyla was familiar with the brew, knowing that it drifted you off into a deep sleep. Her base instinct to not be unconscious around these men warred with the discomfort she felt. The tea's promise of warm release was too seductive. Kyla attempted to raise herself on to her elbows but struggled with the fresh wave of aches and pains.

"Tristan?" she heard Jols ask quietly, before she could really comprehend. The Knight was by her side, a strong, solid arm gently cradling her body forward until she was sitting upright enough to drink. Kyla's left hand came to rest on his shoulder, unsure of whether the move was to cling to him for support as she winced or an aborted effort to push him away. He smelled of leather and horses and Kyla's heart picked up a pace at the close contact. His assistance made it more difficult for Jols to access her so he simply took the cup from the healer. The Knight got the smallest of creases between his eyebrows that Kyla expected she would not have noticed except for their proximity. He brought the cup close to his face and gently blew on the steaming contents in an attempt to cool it down. Kyla had not been so 'mothered' since she was a child and the conflicting emotions it evoked were mortification and... comfort. Kyla felt like her world had been turned on it's head to be in such a situation.

Seemingly satisfied with his ministrations, without making eye contact for once, Tristan raised the cup slowly to Kyla's mouth giving her plenty of time to prepare. As the rim touched her lips he tilted it slightly to let her drink. Kyla tried not to gag at the bitterness of the tea as some of it slid down her throat. She raised her free hand quickly to cover his and stop him. Tristan paused, his eyes finding hers, so close, too close.

"It will help" he said quietly, Kyla felt the words rumble from his chest. Some small dignified part of her even now did not want to appear weak in his presence. Kyla, her smaller hand still partially enclosing his, directed the cup towards her mouth again. She took a long draught before breaking off again, then quickly finished off the last of the liquid in a couple of more sips. Kyla grimaced at the last drop. She quickly released her grip on his hand almost embarrassed, freeing him to give the empty cup back to Jols. Kyla wondered at the hint of amusement that danced in the Knight's dark eyes almost too quickly to register before it was gone.

Tristan slowly lowered Kyla's upper body back to the cot. She couldn't help herself from squeezing down on his shoulder as the movement pained her. Once she was horizontal again she removed her hand as though the touch had burned her. It was not right, to feel comfort from her enemy, from the man who had brought her here. Tristan stood quickly as Jols took his place by her side once again.

Kyla met Jols kindly eyes. "The tea will work quickly. I'll check on you in the morning"

She nodded that she understood, already feeling the remarkable pain relief seeping through her body.

"Thank you" Kyla said quietly, to the obvious satisfaction of the healer.

"Rest well" he said as he rose to leave.

Kyla let the soothing properties of the tea wash over her slowly, her eyes already feeling heavy with sleep. As she began to drift off, her worries and cares slipping away, she was aware of a conversation taking place near by. The last thing she remembered was Tristan talking before succumbing to a feeling of shelter and comfort.

"I'll watch over her."

**To all you darling readers who are sticking with this story I commend your patience! Your interest, reviews, favs and follows are probably the only thing that gets me back to this story. I haven't given up. The usual just keeps getting in the way of writing.**

**Big shout out for the last reviews on Chapter 16: Wmaldonado89, Concrete 63, Gaara-frenzy, AvalonTheLadyKiller, corbsxx, Kristall, xxyangxx2006 and Lux. So good to hear from some familiar readers, you guys are the best xx**

**Apologies again if I didn't get around to thanking you personally, your words are much appreciated.**

**Looking forward to more Kyla/Tristan interaction? ;)**


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